by Lakota Grace
He was wrong. Absolutely, positively wrong.
Will Contest
27
A FEW DAYS LATER, Shepherd motioned me into his office.
“Heard you got into a fight at Grapes Restaurant the other night.” He frowned. “Remember you’re living in a small town. People notice.”
My chin jutted out, and I rocked back on my heels. “So what?”
“You’re the law, whether you’re in uniform or not.”
“Not your business.” We’d been down this road before, with Shepherd assuming he could rule every corner of my life.
He sighed. “Probably my fault as much as anybody's.”
“Meaning?”
“Peg, hear me out.”
I closed his office door and sat down.
“You may not want to hear this.” Shepherd clicked his pen in and out. Then, “Rory Stevens has fallen in love with you.”
“What?” It was the last thing I expected. I shook my head in denial. This relationship between Rory and me was physical. That’s all. I didn’t need complications. And anyway, if Rory felt that way, why didn’t he call and apologize? I was the injured party here.
“Why do you think he leased that Hummer?” Shepherd pressed on to make his point. “He loved that yellow Z3 Beamer he used to drive. But he loves you more.”
“I don't want to be beholden to anybody,” I said, “especially someone who lies.”
“We all lie. When we want to save face, when we get backed into a corner, when we want to avoid conflict…”
“Yeah, I get all that.” I wasn’t in the mood to wax philosophical. My feelings were wounded. Rory Stevens owed me. “So why'd he pull that stunt with Reverend Billy?”
“Call it a young man's folly. Perhaps he saw a way to gain advantage over a rival and took it. Didn't expect that you'd get caught in the middle of it.”
I wasn't ready to concede yet. I wanted flowers and candy. And groveling. A lot of groveling. “I'll think about it,” I muttered. “Anything else?”
“No, that's it. Oh, wait, here's something you might be interested in.” He activated his computer screen and pulled up the court log for Anasazi County. “There's going to be a will contest in the Nettle family estate. You know anything about that?”
I told him about the two wills, one leaving everything to the Nettle kids, the other adding Darbie Granger's unborn son, Cal, Jr.
“That's got to put Ruby Mae in a snit,” Shepherd said. “She the one filing?”
“Probably,” I said. “Janny says her mother is satisfied with her kids getting the property, just doesn't want Darbie laying claim to it.”
“Understandable.”
“Who are the attorneys involved?” I asked.
“Myra Banks for Darbie.”
“That figures. Myra has been involved since the beginning. What about the other side?”
Shepherd peered at the screen. “Don't recognize the name. A James Wightman out of Phoenix. Wonder where Ruby Mae heard of him?”
I fidgeted a bit. Didn't want to share the Reverend Billy connection that I’d discovered. “Are probate hearings public? Can anybody attend?”
“Why? You want to go?”
“Might,” I said. “Give us some insights into the family. I’m still looking for an angle on Cal Nettle's death.”
“Friday morning, 10 a.m., it says. Take the SUV. I'll have my daughter Sheryl squire me around if that VW doesn’t self-destruct first.”
“How're she and Ben getting on?” I nodded toward my assistant in the reception area.
“Too well. Did you know he went out and bought a motorcycle?”
That fact had escaped me. I tuned out the guttural roar of so many Harley motorcycle groups passing through town on their way to swoop down the mountain hairpins. One more wouldn’t make much of an impression.
“Not only that,” Shepherd said. “He’s teaching her how to drive the damn thing.”
“Helmets, I hope.”
“I insisted on that. They're headed out to the New Directions Horse Ranch this afternoon to do some volunteering.”
“If that doesn’t work, maybe they can try Out of Africa. Sheryl can feed raw meat to the lions and tigers.”
Shepherd chuckled. “Yeah, she'd fit right in. How'd I end up with a daughter like that? Not in my gene pool, I’ll tell you.”
I wasn’t so sure.
***
THE MORNING OF the Nettle probate hearing, a massive low-pressure system settled over the Four Corners area of the Southwest, pulling the jet stream lower. What that meant for us in Mingus was rapidly dropping temperatures and lots of moisture.
I had my second cup of coffee at the apartment and put out some dry cat food for the stray that frequented the balcony. I grabbed my phone off the dresser—I’d forgotten to charge it, but I’d plug it in tonight—and headed out the door.
Right on schedule, the clouds arrived, dark with snow potential. The storm descended in a rush of stinging sleet. I pulled my windbreaker close and ducked my chin under its collar for the short walk to the station
Ben arrived just after me, pink-cheeked and triumphant on his new bike, a bright-red Ducati. It was more maneuverable than a Harley Davidson, he explained, and cool in the chick department. I didn’t have to ask which chick. It felt good to be on an even ground again with Ben after he apologized for his part in the Grapes affair.
My status with Rory was still up in the air. I'd called him but only reached his voice mail. I left a non-committal message, but he hadn't responded. Would he be driving Tweetie-Bird yellow or atomic orange, next time we met? I missed the man but didn't know how to bridge this chasm.
When Shepherd arrived, I took the department SUV and left for the courthouse. The sleet shifted to hard rain around Cottonwood and I headed east on Highway 260 with the windshield wipers on max speed.
The icy rain pelted the vehicle in hard, unforgiving sheets as I drove the thirty minutes to the Courthouse Complex near I-17. High winds buffeted the car’s framework, and I canted the steering wheel to keep the tires on the road. The temperature hovered near freezing according to the digital readout on the dash—black ice conditions, that ice coating so transparent that it took the color of the black asphalt beneath it. The highway patrol officers would have their hands full today.
I signaled at the light and drove past the wildlife park toward the municipal complex and then turned right into the courthouse parking lot. The building was five stories high and held not only the courthouse but also a branch of the county jail. Being so close to Out of Africa, the favorite joke of both inmates and guards was who would be the big cats’ next supper.
The courthouse building itself was state-of-the-art, which meant bathrooms with showers for the judges' chambers, and theatre-style chairs instead of wooden benches for spectator galleries. The building also housed a cafeteria for those awaiting jury selection, which was a definite step up from the vending machines in the main sheriff's office in Camp Verde.
A frigid wind blasted me as I opened the SUV door. The guard at the security entrance to the courthouse watched with an impassive expression as I emptied my pockets and walked through the metal detector. Then he directed me down the hall to Judge Compton’s Probate Courtroom.
There were no windows in the room, and glass slits marked each side of the door. I shrugged out of my wet jacket and hung it on the back of my chair to dry.
The Probate Court was like most courtrooms—lots of walnut paneling, and inconspicuous surveillance cameras in the ceiling corners. We hadn't needed cameras like this when I was a kid. Hadn't needed the bulletproof judge's bench or security screening, either. Times had changed over the past decades to include a general disrespect for institutions and increased gun violence.
The bailiff appeared with a water pitcher and glass for the judge. The court reporter brought in her equipment and set up in the well, ready to record the proceedings.
In front of the bar railing, Ruby Mae, her son Eth
an, and a silver-haired man occupied the table nearest the jury box. It was my traffic-ticket customer from the other day. I hoped the fifty-dollar briber was a better persuader of juries than cops, or Ruby Mae would be frittering away the Nettle fortune, what there was left of it.
She wore gray wool slacks and a bright pink V-necked sweater over a white blouse. Ethan was dressed in a somber brown suit, the same one he'd worn to his father's funeral.
Myra Banks sat at the defendant's table and next to her, Darbie Granger, wearing a subdued two-piece blue maternity outfit. She looked very pregnant.
“Scoot over.” Janny Nettle appeared at my shoulder.
“Terrible weather,” I said, moving over for her and draping my jacket over the next chair. “Where's Aurora?”
“My brother Howard's babysitting. Momma doesn’t want him anywhere near Darbie. Momma's still not talking to me either after I gave that other will to Darbie, so I'm sitting here in the spectators’ area. Wouldn't miss this show for anything.”
She pointed toward Darbie. “Looks like an overripe watermelon, doesn't she? Stubborn, too. Wants to have the baby natural.”
“That the attorney Reverend Billy suggested?” I asked.
Janny nodded. “He's some big-wig from Phoenix. Not sure how he'll get on with Judge Compton—his honor doesn't like being talked down to. But that attorney’s a fine looking man, isn't he?”
I withheld my judgment on that one. I’d had my fill of fine looking men. “How do you think the judge will rule?”
“I heard that the judge’s daughter is pregnant with his first grandchild,” Janny said. “I'm betting on Darbie.”
We stood when Judge Compton entered from his chamber. He was a small man with short brown hair and heavy glasses, wearing the black robes of office. As he mounted the bench he appeared to grow in height. Justice does that.
We sat and waited for him to begin.
“Look, people, I'd like to tell you I'm late for my golf game, but that would be a lie, and judges never lie.” He waited for our polite laughter. “Truth is, I'd like to finish up early and get us all home before this weather gets worse. Blowing up a real gale out there.” He rocked back and forth in his chair to get comfortable. “This hearing will be an informal one. First Respondent, introduce yourself to the court.”
Ruby Mae’s attorney rose. “If it pleases the court, Mr. James Wightman, from the Phoenix probate firm of Smith, Branson, and Wightman, representing Ms. Ruby Mae Nettle and the Nettle family.” He made a gesture to his right and then sat.
“Heard of you. Good firm. And for the Second Respondent?”
Myra rose. “Myra Banks, your honor. My client, Darbie Granger.”
“Ms. Banks.” The judge took off his glasses and looked at her sternly. “The last time you were here, I held your client in contempt of court. Nothing like that planned today, I presume?”
“No, your honor.” Myra looked thoroughly penitent.
“Good, then we can begin.”
Myra sat.
The Judge summarized. “First the court received the petition allowing the will brought forth by the Nettle family. Then we received a petition for a second will from Darbie Granger. My clerk was smart enough to realize what was happening, and I've taken the liberty of combining these two matters into one case. We're here today to decide which Last Will and Testament of Calhoun Nettle will prevail. Mr. Wightman, you’re up.”
The faithful-father, loyal-husband flag went up the pole again as Attorney Wightman presented a glowing picture of Ruby Mae’s spouse. Wasn’t what I’d heard about Cal, but then, attorneys do stretch the truth occasionally.
Myra Banks stood to describe Darbie Granger as a poor single mom, beloved by Cal Nettle who intended to provide for her unborn son. I could hear the violins playing. I wondered which story the judge would believe, but he showed a poker face. They must teach that in judge school.
He asked both sides whether they believed the two wills had been signed by Calhoun Nettle.
“We do, your honor,” said Mr. Wightman.
“We also so stipulate,” said Myra.
“As both sides agree to the validity of the wills, and as we do not know which was written last, I need to ask more questions of both respondents.” The judge templed his fingers. “Let me get the relationships straight. Myra Banks, does your client Darbie Granger agree that Ruby Mae Nettle is the lawful wife of one Calhoun Nettle?”
“Yes, your honor,” Myra said.
Darbie stood indignantly. “But he didn’t love her, your honor. He was going to marry me.” Myra pulled her down quickly and the judge nodded his approval. Score one point for Myra.
Then the judge turned to Mr. Wightman. “Does your client acknowledge that Darbie Granger is pregnant and that the probable father may be the recently deceased Calhoun Nettle?”
I expected an explosion out of Ruby Mae, but she sat there stolidly, her arms crossed. Wightman bent over and conferred with her. “Yes, your honor,” he responded, “we so acknowledge.”
That was a surprise. Although Cal’s patrimony seemed to be common knowledge, I hadn’t expected Ruby Mae to confirm it.
The hearing continued, examining the relationships Cal had with both women. Darbie squirmed in her seat and Ruby Mae shot several looks her direction. At first, I thought the glances were hostile, but then I wasn't so sure. Finally, Darbie whispered to Myra and the attorney stood.
“Your honor, my client requests a small recess.”
The judge looked up. “Granted.”
Darbie made an awkward dash for the side door that led to the restrooms.
Janny jumped to her feet. “I'm going to see what's happening.”
While they were away, I checked my phone. I had a message from Melda, the dispatcher. The weather bureau warned of freezing temperatures and increasing chances for ice and high winds. They recommended all persons stay off the road. Would have been nice to know that earlier. Minus one point for the meteorologist.
Darbie retook her chair at her attorney's table, and Janny dropped into the seat beside me. She leaned over to whisper in my ear. “Darbie thinks she's having false labor pains. I told her she should have delayed this hearing, but she wouldn't listen to me. Wanted to get it all settled before Cal, Jr. arrived.”
The hearing plodded along as both attorneys presented arguments why their side should prevail. Finally, the judge signaled a halt. “Enough. Let's see if all parties can't compromise on this. Set another hearing date with the clerk and come back to me with an agreement. No sense in piling up attorney's fees if we don't need to.”
The attorneys stood and gathered their papers in preparation for departure. The lights flickered once. Then we lost all power, and the courtroom turned inky black.
A woman’s scream echoed from the front of the courtroom.
A New Life
28
THE POWER FLICKERED to life in the courtroom. Myra stood. “Your honor, my client has gone into labor. Do I have the court’s permission to call 911?”
The judge waved his assent. “Of course, please call.”
Myra's fingers got busy.
“You don't look well, young lady. Would you like to lie down in my chambers until the paramedics arrive?” The judge looked around the courtroom. “Is there a doctor or nurse present?” For a moment, no one raised their hand.
Then, Ruby Mae stood. “Guess I'm it. Birthed my own four at home. Midwifed others.”
“Ms. Granger, you okay with that?” the judge asked.
Darbie nodded and then clutched at her stomach as another contraction shivered through her.
“Bailiff, clear the courtroom. Ms. Granger, to my chambers.”
Ruby Mae looked our direction. “Janny? You get down here. Peg Quincy? You, too.”
We braced the tide leaving the courtroom and joined her in the front.
Myra made an attempt to stay with her client, but Ruby Mae stopped her. “Ever had a baby?”
Myra shook her head.
>
“Didn't think so. Go back to your fancy office.” Then she looked at her own attorney. “No sense in paying your high fees either if you're just standing around. I'll talk to you tomorrow.” With that, she dismissed both of them.
Ruby Mae had plans for her son Ethan, as well. “Go down to the cafeteria. Get a bag of salt, a big pan, see if they've got some fresh tablecloths, not been used. Bring all those up here. And stop at Security. We need an unopened box of those blue gloves. Finally a good use for those nasty things.”
We trooped into the judge's chamber. Next to the desk, a backless couch stood against the wall. A door opened to a bathroom beyond. The room was spacious but made for attorney conferences, not for delivering babies.
“My office is at your disposal,” the judge said. “What can I do for you?”
“How about some whiskey?” Ruby Mae asked.
He looked startled. “Why, yes, I keep some for medicinal purposes.” He opened a bottom drawer and withdrew a nearly full bottle of Chivas Regal. “Should I give some to Ms. Granger?” He pulled out a glass.
“Fool! That's to sterilize the scissors. I assume you have some?”
He reddened and pulled a pair from a desk drawer.
Ruby Mae made her next demand. “Need a first aid kit. You got one in here someplace?”
“Yes, behind the door, there.”
“Well, reach it down to me. Don't have all day,” she barked.
The good judge and Ruby Mae bristled at each other. Wouldn't bode well for a possible delivery. We needed an unruffled midwife. “Sir, I'm an officer of the law. I'll keep track of things here, if you'd like to retire outside.”
Handing Ruby Mae the first aid kit, Judge Compton retreated from the field of battle.
Darbie collapsed in a chair, and Ruby Mae knelt down beside her. She took the girl's hand and looked into her eyes. “Ms. Granger—Darbie—I didn't ask for this and neither did you. But that baby you're carrying? The last thing that Cal left on this earth. I'd not harm his child. You understand that?”
