Miguel chuckled, more philosophical than angry, as if the beauty of his ex-wife’s scheme had suddenly come clear. “So the joke’s on us. She makes us feel close to the money, but no one can really get it. At least not soon enough for it to be of any use to us in our lifetime. We’ll just go on living and hoping we’ll be rich some day, but we’re all just going to die as poor as we ever were.”
Vivien said, “If you’re feeling abused, you can always opt out. Nothing prevents a beneficiary from rejecting his right to an inheritance.”
He looked around the room, seeming to be doing some quick computations in his head as to the odds of his outliving everyone else in the room. “No. I’ll play her little game. I’d be happy to take her forty-six million.”
“And she’d be happy for you to have it,” said Vivien. “And I mean that. Sincerely.”
“So all we can do is wait?” asked the reporter. “Just go on living our lives and wait for everyone else to die?”
“That’s exactly right,” said Vivien.
Gerry the Genius flashed his plastic grin. “And, of course, we should all rest a lot easier and live a lot longer knowing that none of us here is a trained killer.”
He laughed too hard at his own joke. They all laughed, but it only made the moment all the more uneasy.
“Yeah,” said Tatum, catching Jack’s eye as he spoke. “Thank goodness for that.”
Nine
Things were moving fast. On Tuesday morning, Jack and Tatum were in court already. The plan was to move things even faster. Jack didn’t often find himself in probate court, and it was a bit of an adjustment for him. In some ways it was the most uncivil of places in the entire civil court system, the bloody arena in which sisters fought brothers and sons betrayed mothers, all in pursuit of family fortunes. Yet it was regarded as a strangely courteous environment, at least among members of the bar. Lawyers held the door for each other, said good morning, shook hands, knew each other by their first names. They even seemed to talk softly when addressing the court, as if in respect for the dead. Here, the stakes were as high as in any courtroom, but the style was different. That was why they called it “Whisper Court.”
“Good morning,” said Judge Parsons from the bench. He was one of the more respected members of the Miami-Dade County judiciary, a wiry African-American with thick, gray eyebrows and a shaved head that glistened like a brand-new bowling ball.
“Good morning, Your Honor.” The reply was a mixed chorus of lawyers and clients. Since the meeting at Vivien Grasso’s office, the number of relevant players had grown appreciably. Evidently, none of the beneficiaries was willing to play Sally’s forty-six-million-dollar game without topflight legal representation. Ex-husband Miguel Rioshad hired Parker Aimes, the five-time chairman of the probate section of the Florida Bar and a distant relative of the late Will Rogers. (The joke was that he’d never met a decedent he didn’t like.) Reporter Deirdre Meadows was represented by not one, but two lawyers from Miami’s biggest firm. Assistant State Attorney Mason Rudsky had already dumped his first lawyer and replaced him with a former law professor who had literally written the book on Florida’s law of estates and trusts. With Vivien Grasso as personal representative of Sally’s estate, the introductions were starting to sound like a Who’s Who of the probate bar, with one notable exception.
“Your Honor, I’m Gerry Colletti…appearing on behalf of Gerry Colletti.”
There was a light chuckle in the background, which seemed to annoy Gerry. He was apparently the only person in the courtroom who didn’t find it goofy that the client was introducing himself as the lawyer.
The judge said, “Mr. Swyteck, it’s your motion that’s brought us here. Please proceed.”
“It’s really quite a simple motion, Judge. As you know, Vivien Grasso is the personal representative of Sally Fenning’s estate. The law gives her ten days from the date of Ms. Fenning’s death to deposit with the clerk of the court a copy of Ms. Fenning’s last will and testament. As of today, ten days have come and gone, and the will is not on file.”
“But according to Ms. Grasso, she read the entire will to you at her office.”
Vivien rose and said, “That’s exactly right, Your Honor.”
“That’s not exactly right,” said Jack. “She read the entire will to us, except for the identity of the sixth beneficiary.”
Vivien said, “If I may explain, Your Honor.”
“Please do.”
“We’re talking about a forty-six-million-dollar estate. Look at the interest this case is generating,” she said as she turned and pointed to the public seating behind her.
Jack turned and looked with everyone else. The gallery was nearly full, six rows of shoulder-to-shoulder seating.
The judge asked, “Where did the buzz about this case come from all of a sudden?”
Vivien said, “Obviously you didn’t see the paper this morning. Nifty little story about the missing heir in a forty-six-million-dollar game of survival. Doesn’t take long for word to get out when one of the beneficiaries is a reporter.”
Deirdre Meadows sank low in her chair.
Vivien continued. “Now, why do you think the courtroom is nearly full for a Mickey Mouse motion like this one? I’ll tell you why. Because every warm body sitting in the observation gallery this morning works for a lawyer. They’re chomping at the bit, just waiting for me to divulge the name of that sixth beneficiary, so that they go running after him with a business card.”
Jack took another look, panning across a sea of faces that looked guilty as charged.
The judge flashed a thin smile and said, “Funny, but I’m suddenly reminded of something I watched the other night on the Discovery Channel. A helpless deer was surrounded by a pack of hungry coyotes with teeth bared. The pack slowly closed in, jaws snapping, until finally one of them lunged forward and took hold of a hoof. The others piled on. In a matter of seconds the deer was on its back, limbs extended, drawn-and-quartered as the ravenous coyotes pulled mercilessly for a share of the meal. Anyway, I digress. I guess that’s my way of saying that one third of forty-six million dollars is a contingency fee worth fighting over.”
“You bet it is,” said Vivien. “And that’s why I don’t want to publicize the name of the sixth beneficiary until I’ve been able to locate him. If I’m forced to reveal the name, I’m afraid that one of these coyotes, as you say, is likely to reach him before I do. Frankly, I think that’s an utterly distasteful way for someone to find out they’re a beneficiary under a will.”
“I agree,” said Jack. “That’s why I haven’t asked the court to order Ms. Grasso to file the will with the court.”
“Then what are you requesting?” asked the judge.
“This is a peculiar situation,” said Jack. “Ms. Fenning’s will is structured so that the surviving beneficiary inherits the entire estate.”
“Which is exactly Ms. Grasso’s point,” said the judge. “Unless the beneficiaries are willing to wait fifty or more years for the money, they’ll either have to figure out some way to get the other beneficiaries disqualified or to work out a settlement. That means they’ll need a sharp lawyer, and I have little doubt that there will be plenty of them hunting down our mystery beneficiary once his name is revealed.”
“That’s one side of it, Your Honor. But consider another possibility. Immediately following the reading of the will at Ms. Grasso’s office, I believe it was Mr. Colletti who made a joke to the effect that it’s a good thing none of the beneficiaries is a trained killer, or maybe they’d all have to start looking over their shoulders. After leaving the office, it occurred to me: How do we know this unidentified sixth beneficiary isn’t a trained killer?”
“Do you have reason to believe he is dangerous?” asked the judge. Jack hesitated. He couldn’t very well inform the judge that Sally Fenning tried to hire his own client as a hit man, or that the real reason for his motion was to test his theory that beneficiary number six was the hired gun who hadn�
�t turned Sally down.
“I don’t know anything about him,” said Jack. “But for the sake of personal safety and peace of mind, each of the beneficiaries should know the name of the sixth beneficiary. So I ask the court to order Ms. Grasso to divulge the name to us immediately, under seal, for our eyes only. Then once she finds him, she can make the name public.”
“Ms. Grasso, what’s wrong with that?” asked the judge.
“In theory, nothing,” she replied. “But we have to look at reality here. If I were simply turning the name over to Mr. Swyteck, whom I know and trust, I wouldn’t be worried. But let’s face it. Once the coyotes sitting on that side of the rail realize that everyone sitting on this side of the rail knows who the sixth beneficiary is, there’s no telling how much money they might pay one of us for that information.”
Gerry jumped to his feet. “I resent that, Your Honor! Ms. Grasso was looking right at me when she made that implied accusation.”
“I was not.”
“Oh, what a crock.”
“Enough!” said the judge, throwing his hands in the air. “I won’t have lawyers sniping at each other in my courtroom.”
Heavens to Mergatroid, no, thought Jack. Not in Whisper Court.
The lawyers apologized, but the judge had already made up his mind. “Ms. Grasso, I appreciate your concerns, but I can’t suspend filing deadlines based upon your abstract fear that some lawyers may act unethically in pursuit of a hefty contingency fee.” He peered out over his reading glasses, scanning the public seating area. “That said, let me make myself absolutely clear to the peanut gallery. If anyone oversteps the bounds of ethics and good taste in pursuit of this sixth beneficiary, they’ll have me to deal with.”
“Does that mean I’m required to file the will with the court?” asked Vivien.
“Yes. By the end of the day. And in the interest of avoiding a mad stampede on the clerk’s office, let’s do it this way. Please announce the name of the sixth beneficiary.”
“Right here, in open court?”
“No time like the present.”
“All right. If that’s the court’s ruling.”
“That’s my ruling.”
“His name is Alan Sirap.”
A rumble emerged from the public seating behind Jack, as scores of courthouse spies reached for pen and paper to scribble down the name. Jack glanced at his client, but Tatum shrugged, as if the name meant nothing to him.
“Anything further?” asked the judge.
No one answered.
“Then we’re adjourned.” With the bang of a gavel, the judge stepped down from the bench and exited swiftly through a side exit to his chambers.
The lawyers and their clients rose and gathered their briefcases. Colletti took the long way around the big mahogany table, and he didn’t stop until he was standing within Jack’s personal space. He spoke firmly but in a low voice, so no one but Jack could hear. “If you think you got a leg up because you’re buddy-buddy with Vivien Grasso, think again. I’m not in this to lose. Especially to a client like yours.”
“I’d take him over your client any day, Gerry.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Jack watched as Colletti walked up the aisle to the main exit in the back of the courtroom, pushing his way through the crowd, as if he were determined to lead the pack of coyotes from the courthouse.
Ten
It was an hour before sunset and just minutes before tip-off as Jack threw together a tray of beer, chips, and salsa for the Knicks-Heat game on the tube. The stakes were high. If the Heat lost again, Jack would get a flood of calls and e-mails from friends in New York. Knicks rule, Heat suck, na, na, na-na, na. But it was one of those magical Miami nights when Jack would fall asleep to the soothing sounds and smells of Biscayne Bay right outside his open bedroom window, while his buddies up North had just one more day to decide which pair of long johns to wear under their Halloween costumes, so who were the real losers anyway?
“I got good news and bad news,” said Theo. He was peering through binoculars and standing on Jack’s patio beside the portable television he’d wheeled outside for the game. Jack adjusted the rabbit ears, then set up the goodies on the table beneath the umbrella. Nothing like beer, your best friend, and basketball under the stars.
“What now?” asked Jack.
Theo lowered the binoculars. “The good news is, your neighbor likes to prance around the house naked as a jaybird.”
“My neighbor is a seventy-eight-year-old man,” said Jack, wincing.
“Yeah. That’s, uh, kind of the bad news.” Jack chuckled as he grabbed a beer and fell into the chaise. Theo plopped down beside him and put the whole bowl of chips in his lap.
“You gonna leave some for me?” asked Jack.
“Get your own.” Theo reached for the remote control, but Jack snatched it away.
“That’s where I draw the line, buddy,” said Jack.
“I just wanted to see if Sally Fenning’s in the news again.”
“What makes you think she would be?”
“The name of the sixth beneficiary is out there now. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if the media finds this Alan Sirap before the lawyers do.”
“You got a point.”
“Course I got a point. I always got a point. I don’t open my mouth unless I got a point. Unless I gotta burp.” He belched like a foghorn.
“Could you possibly be any more disgusting?”
“Only on a good day.” He put the bowl of chips aside and asked, “So, what are you gonna do about Tatum? You gonna represent him?”
“I already do.”
“I don’t mean this hourly bullshit you’re doing as a favor to me. Are you gonna jump in this case for the long haul or not?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Come on. Like the judge said, there’ll be plenty of legal back-stabbing to go around, with each of these beneficiaries trying to pick off the other ones. And it’s high profile, too. When’s the last time you had a case that was in the news like this?”
Jack shot him a wicked glare.
Theo coughed, as if suddenly recalling that the last high-profile case had nearly gotten Jack, himself, indicted. “Okay, forget the publicity angle. Let’s talk dollars and sense. You got pretty beat up in the divorce. The only thing Cindy didn’t take was your car and your best friend, and she probably could’ve had that too. Imagine me wearing a fucking cap and driving Miss Daisy all around Coral Gables in a Mustang convertible.”
“It wasn’t worth the fight. I just wanted to move on.”
“That doesn’t change the facts. You got a nice house here, Jack, but you don’t own it, and we’re sitting outside watching TV not because it’s such a beautiful night, but because you don’t even have an air conditioner.”
“What’s your point?”
“One third of forty-six million dollars-that’s my point.”
“You think I should sign on as Tatum’s lawyer?”
“If you don’t, someone else will. Why shouldn’t it be you? All the other beneficiaries are hiring topflight lawyers.”
“The other lawyers have the comfort of knowing that their client didn’t kill Sally Fenning.”
“So do you.”
Jack drank his beer, didn’t say anything.
Theo said, “I can’t give you a hundred percent proof Tatum didn’t kill her. But he gave me his word, brother to brother, in the boxing ring, and there’s probably no place more sacred to the Knight brothers than the ring. There’s no sure thing in life, especially when you’re talking about a shot at a one-third contingency fee on a take of forty-six million bucks.”
“I know what you’re saying.”
“I don’t think you do. I’m talking about more than just money. It’s who you are, and who you’re going to be the rest of your pathetic life.”
“Let’s not get carried away here.”
“This is no bullshit. Tatum and I used to have this saying. There’s tw
o kinds of people in this world, risk takers and shit takers.”
Jack laughed, but Theo was serious.
Theo said, “Tatum might not be your ideal version of a client, but he’s giving you the chance to answer a very important question. So think real hard before you spit out an answer: What do you want to be the rest of your life, Jack Swyteck? A risk taker? Or a shit taker?”
They locked eyes, and then Jack looked away, letting his gaze drift toward the water and a distant sailboat running wing-and-wing toward the mainland. “Tell your brother to stop by the office tomorrow. We’ll sign a contingency fee agreement.”
Part Two
Eleven
The Harmattan winds were blowing right on schedule.
It was Rene’s third autumn in West Africa, and no one had to tell her that the dusty winds had returned in full force. Her dry eyes and stinging nostrils didn’t lie. The winds blew from the deserts of the north, starting as early as October, typically lasting through February. With the dust, however, came occasionally cooler temperatures at night, though cooler was indeed a relative concept in a place where a typical daytime high was ninety-five degrees and the weather on the whole was best described as gaspingly hot. In the next five months they’d have just five days with rainfall, but at least there would be no raging rivers of mud to wash livestock, children, or entire hillside villages into the valley. Life in West Africa was a trade-off, and Rene had learned to accept that. For the foreseeable future, she’d live with dust in her hair, dust on her clothes, dust on her toothbrush, and it was just too damn bad if her friends back home just couldn’t understand why the snapshots she sent them had such a flat lifelessness about them. Even under the best of circumstances, it was hard to do photographic justice to the endless grasslands of northern Côte d’Ivoire, unless you were a professional, and Rene was anything but that.
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