by MJ Rodgers
Lyton paced in front of the jury box for a moment, letting them think about his question before going on.
“David wanted to fund worthy causes with his considerable estate, both before and after his death.
“He considered three causes worthy of his support, the American Cancer Society and two local nonprofit societies. David’s estate gave the American Cancer Society an outright gift of fifty million dollars at the time of his death and another fifty million each year thereafter into perpetuity. Those gifts are not in question. They are not contingent on the existence of any beneficiary.
“David’s trust also provided that two local nonprofit societies would be funded into perpetuity. The authorized representatives of those societies are Brian Pechman and Norma Voyce, my clients in this case.”
Lyton paused in his address as he turned to smile at his clients. Then he quickly walked over to Remy’s table and stared down at her as if he were looking at a bug he was about to squash.
“This woman is trying to subvert David Demerchant’s wishes for the disposition of his estate to the local nonprofit societies that are doing so much good in our community.”
Remy leaned back in her chair and dropped her hands to her lap, trying to stay as far away from that malevolent look as she could. Lyton turned from her, disgust clinging to his smooth features like flies on flypaper. His voice rose angrily.
“This woman purposely had a child out of wedlock and is now claiming that child is David’s in order to try to gain control of David’s money. She doesn’t care for the good works that David wanted his money to do! She only cares for herself and what she can get!”
Lyton remained in front of Remy, his back turned to her. “Neither this woman nor her child were mentioned in David Demerchant’s living trust. He never met either of them, nor did he even know they existed or would exist. Yet this woman is claiming to have had his child. She is trying to swindle the societies David clearly intended to fund with his money.”
Lyton moved away from Remy and returned to stand in front of the jury box.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I will bring forth witnesses and documents in this trial to prove everything that I have just said to you. And what you will know for a certainty at its end is that this woman did not give birth to the rightful and legal beneficiary of David Demerchant’s estate. On the contrary, she gave birth to a bastard whose father even she never knew.”
As Steve Lyton returned to the plaintiff’s table, the vicious tone he had used to spit out his last hateful words struck Remy like a slap across the face.
Marc’s hand found hers beneath the defense table and gave it a quick squeeze of reassurance. It suddenly felt as though in this entire courtroom he was the only one on her side.
She heard these thoughts inside her head and they amazed her. On her side? This was the man who had brought all this chaos into her life. Remy sighed, wondering whether she’d ever be able to think straight again.
Marc rose and approached the jury for his opening statement.
“Ladies and gentlemen, despite what Mr. Lyton just tried to mislead you into thinking, Dr. Remy Westbrook, the woman who will be sitting next to me during this trial, is not my client in this case. My client cannot be present during these proceedings because he’s only eighteen months old. However, I’m determined to introduce you to him.”
Marc waved his hand at someone in the back of the room. Immediately the lights dimmed. Another wave and Remy watched as an enormous picture of Nicholas flashed onto the white wall above the judge.
The whole courtroom exploded with an appreciative “Ahh.”
Remy didn’t blame them. It was an adorable picture. Her very favorite. Nicholas’s silky cognac cap caught the light like a flurry of fireflies. His big blue eyes twinkled with all-boy mischief and charm. His happy lips spread with the open innocence and warmth of his little heart.
As she looked at this picture of her beautiful son and her heart filled to overflowing with love for him, neither Marc’s pledge to win the custody battle nor even her own years of careful mental discipline could hold back the stinging tears of terror gathering in her eyes.
No matter how much she tried to put it out of her mind, no matter how much reason told her the chance was remote, the fear of losing her child always stalked the edge of her thoughts.
Remy composed herself with the few remaining shreds of her control and forcibly tried to stem the flow of tears. For Nicholas’s sake, she must not give in to this fear. For Nicholas’s sake, she must remain strong. For Nicholas’s sake.
“This little guy’s name is Nicholas Alexander Westbrook,” Marc said as he continued to address the jury. “He’s as bright and beautiful as a child can be. He’s also David Demerchant’s son.”
Marc paused after that simple statement as all eyes remained on Nicholas’s picture.
“David Demerchant wanted children, so much so in fact that when he learned he might be carrying a genetic predisposition to early sterility, he placed his sperm in a sperm bank for safekeeping. He was taking no chances on losing out on his becoming a father. Tragically, he died never knowing about this little guy.”
Marc walked over to stand behind Remy. He waved a hand and the lights came up, and the smiling picture of Nicholas on the wall faded. All eyes in the courtroom refocused on him as he placed his hands on Remy’s shoulders.
“Dr. Remy Westbrook is a busy professional woman. Like many women today, she could not find the right man to be both husband and father.”
Remy was beginning to understand why Marc had insisted on so many single, professional women on the jury.
“But her heart ached for a child,” he continued. “So she sought the services of a sperm bank to conceive.”
Yes, her heart had ached for a child. How had he known?
Marc’s hands slipped off Remy’s shoulders as he walked over to the jury.
“And it was an intelligent, well-thought-out decision, too, ladies and gentlemen. Consider, the sperm from that sperm bank comes only from healthy, intelligent, college-educated men. Plus which, it has also been tested and guaranteed against carrying AIDS and other deadly diseases that a mother has to be so careful about protecting herself and her unborn child from these days.”
Remy marveled at how well Marc was repainting the picture of her character—from a woman of incontinent sexual appetite, to one of impeccable sense and responsibility. Amazing what a lawyer could do with a few well-chosen words. She was beginning to be damn glad this lawyer was using his well-chosen words on her behalf.
“The sperm bank, however, made an error,” Marc continued. “Instead of giving her the sperm of an anonymous donor, it gave her David Demerchant’s sperm—sperm that the bank was supposed to be preserving for David. Dr. Westbrook conceived from David’s sperm and delivered nine months later. And here he is. David Demerchant’s son. Nicholas Alexander. The cutest mistake a mom could ever hope for.”
Once again the lights dimmed and Nicholas’s projection flashed on the wall for a brief moment before it faded once again and the lights came back up.
“As trustee to David’s estate, I had to make a decision when I learned of the existence of his surprise son. First, I had to satisfy myself that Nicholas was indeed David’s son. I’ll be sharing that proof with you as this case progresses. Once I was satisfied, I knew that my friend, David, would want his son to have the full benefit of his estate, just as he had instructed me to outline in his trust. I’ll be presenting those passages to you, also.”
Marc paused to step over to the plaintiff’s table.
“The last thing I had to do, ladies and gentlemen, was to advise the presidents of the local societies that had been receiving yearly stipends from David’s estate that since David’s son had been found and was his rightful beneficiary, their societies were no longer eligible to receive any more money.”
Marc looked directly at Pechman and Voyce, drawing the jury’s attention to them. “Well, they didn’t like that
much, ladies and gentlemen, so they hired this high-powered attorney.”
Suddenly the lights in the courtroom dimmed again and Nicholas’s picture reappeared.
“And this high-powered attorney is here before you today calling this beautiful baby boy a fraud. Don’t let his attacks upon Dr. Remy Westbrook fool you. It’s this little guy here who is supposed to get his daddy’s money.”
Marc refaced the jury. “You are about to hear Mr. Pechman and Ms. Voyce’s attorney engage in every legal trick imaginable to try to take this little boy’s money from him. It’s not right. It’s not nice. But then, as you will soon be seeing, neither are they.”
As Marc returned to the defense table, the lights gradually came back up and Nicholas’s picture faded once more.
Remy had forgotten how forceful and commanding a presence Marc presented in a courtroom—until she’d seen him again this morning. His opening statement had been dynamite.
“Mr. Lyton, your first witness,” Judge Swellen said.
“I call Brian Pechman,” Lyton said.
Pechman took the stand and the court clerk swore him in. He rolled his round body into the witness chair, his easy smile in evidence.
“Mr. Pechman, what do you do?”
“I am president of the Boys’ Ranch of Washington.”
“And what is the purpose of the Boys’ Ranch?”
“We take troubled youth away from the neighborhood gangs and drugs that have gotten them into trouble and bring them out to the ranch to give them a chance to change their lives.”
“What do they do at the Boys’ Ranch?”
“We teach them to be working cowboys, to take care of the livestock and the land. It’s hard work and we don’t try to make it easy. By teaching them to care for one another and the animals, we’re hoping they’ll learn new strengths to help them resist the old pulls that have led them into trouble.”
“Mr. Pechman, how is this ranch currently supported?”
“By funds from David Demerchant’s estate. He has been our sole contributor from the beginning.”
“Can you tell us about that beginning?”
“David caught a twelve-year-old trying to steal his car. He didn’t want to take him to the police. He heard about a neighborhood boys’ center I was running out of my home with my own two boys. He brought the car thief to me.”
“Mr. Pechman, how long ago was this?”
“Let’s see. My eldest, Brian Jr., was going on fourteen then. Makes it about three years ago now.”
“Thank you. Please go on.”
“Well, I told David I’d do what I could for the kid, but what he and all the others like him really needed was a chance to get off the streets. I told him about my dream of a ranch out in the clean, unspoiled wilderness. He told me that he knew of this piece of property in eastern Washington that would probably be ideal. It was huge, he said, a thousand acres of flat land and a mountain rising in the middle of it, covered with streams and trails. Just hearing about it made my mouth water.”
“After he told you about this property, what happened?”
“Well, I agreed it would be ideal for the boys. I told him I could see it serving as both a ranch and a place for wilderness hiking and camping. And then, of course, that’s when he told me.”
“Told you what?”
“Well, that he owned that land, and if I agreed to be president and set it up and run it and all, he’d donate the land to the Boys’ Ranch of Washington.”
“And he actually did this?”
“He handed me the deed a week later, along with a check for a million dollars, and told me to get started on equipping the ranch with what I needed.”
“Mr. Pechman, what did you do with the million-dollar check David gave you?”
“I arranged for wells to be drilled, paid for electric lines to be brought in, and oversaw the construction of barns, corrals, bunkhouses, cabins and a huge ranch house. David came out to the ranch several times to watch the progress. We’d sit in front of a campfire as the evening drew to a close and talk about the boys who would be helped there. He told me that he’d provided for the future of the ranch in his living trust.”
“He made that verbal commitment to you?”
“Yes. And he came through. He was a man of his word.”
Pechman paused as moisture collected in his eyes. “David Demerchant left a legacy to those boys that will never be forgotten.”
“Thank you, Mr. Pechman. I have nothing further.”
Marc got up and came to stand in front of Brian Pechman. He gave him a good, long stare. Pechman ran his hand over the balding spot on his scalp, becoming just a trifle uncomfortable beneath that stare.
“Mr. Pechman, you just said that David Demerchant was a man of his word. Are you a man of your word?”
“Of course.”
“You took land and money from David to fund a boys’ ranch for troubled youth, isn’t that right?”
“Yes.”
“How much is that land worth?”
“The assessor said about twenty million.”
“And how much money, in total, did David give you for the Boys’ Ranch before he died?”
“About a million and a half.”
“And since his death, how much has David’s estate paid you to keep this Boys’ Ranch going?”
“Five million each year over the last two years.”
“So you have received property worth twenty million and another eleven and a half million dollars from David Demerchant, either personally or through his estate, to fund the Boys’ Ranch, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
Marc turned from his witness and nonchalantly walked toward the jury. “How many troubled boys have you helped at the ranch?”
Pechman rolled a bit in his chair. “I don’t have a number I can give you.”
“A hundred?”
“No, not that many.”
“Fifty?”
“It’s hard for me to estimate when—”
Marc swung back to face Pechman, remaining in front of the jury, forcing Pechman to look their way. “Ten?”
Pechman’s hand rubbed his bald spot again. “I’m not a numbers man.”
“You’re not a numbers man,” Marc repeated. “Mr. Pechman, isn’t it true that you haven’t helped even one troubled youth at your Boys’ Ranch?”
“We’ve needed time to set up. These things just don’t go into operation overnight.”
“You told this court that you met David three years ago and that within a week he had turned the property over to you and written you a check for a million dollars. What have you done in all that time to get the Boys’ Ranch operating?”
“Like I said before. The well-drilling, the electricity, getting the buildings erected, securing the stock and the staff.”
“And how long did all of this take?”
“It’s still going on.”
“You’re not ready to bring troubled youth to the ranch?”
“Not at this minute, no.”
“What’s holding you up?”
“There are administrative steps that need to be taken.”
“What administrative steps?”
Pechman’s bald spot had begun to develop a severe itch. “Selecting the boys. We only have room and staff to handle fifty. We have to be sure that we take the fifty who can best benefit from the experience.”
“When will this final selection take place?”
“Winter will be here soon. We don’t think it would be advisable to bring the boys out then. The rigors of running a ranch during winter might be too much for them. We were thinking that next spring would be a more reasonable season to begin their experience.”
“So it’s only the expected harsh weather that is postponing the boys’ use of the ranch’s facilities?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure it isn’t also the fifty paying guests you currently have occupying those new deluxe cabins and eating in that ranch hou
se and riding those horses and roping that livestock that you bought with David Demerchant’s money for troubled boys?”
Pechman’s mouth dropped open in surprise. The murmur in the spectator area of the courtroom rose substantially.
“Well, Mr. Pechman?” Marc pressed. “This court is waiting for you to explain why instead of troubled youth, you have a bunch of well-heeled yuppies using the facilities of the Boys’ Ranch and paying handsomely for the privilege.”
Pechman closed his mouth, rolled forward and grasped the front of the witness box. “That’s only interim. We’re just trying out the facilities.”
“Only interim? Just trying out the facilities? Isn’t it true, Mr. Pechman, that you have been ‘just trying out’ these facilities since April of this year, with wave after wave of well-paying customers?”
“I...we wanted to be sure everything was going to operate smoothly. We were collecting the money to use for the boys! All the funds go back into the operation! We’re nonprofit!”
“Nonprofit? Mr. Pechman, what is your salary as president of the Boys’ Ranch of Washington?”
“Your Honor, I object! Irrelevant,” Lyton said.
“Goes to motivation, Your Honor, and I believe I have established sufficient foundation to question the motivation of this witness.”
The judge nodded. “Objection overruled. Witness is instructed to answer.”
“Seven hundred and fifty...thousand.”
“Excuse me? You get three-quarters of a million dollars in salary to run a dude ranch that was supposed to have been a ranch for troubled youth?”
“Your Honor, I object! Mr. Truesdale is unfairly framing his question!”
“Sustained.”
“Mr. Pechman,” Marc said, “who decided you were going to receive three-quarters of a million dollars each year as president of the Boys’ Ranch?”
“The board of directors decides on all staff salaries.”
“And who comprises the board of directors?”
Pechman’s eyes dropped to his lap—along with his voice. “Myself, Mrs. Pechman, Brian Pechman, Jr., and Gordon Pechman.”
“In other words your wife and your two sons?”
