The trial was in the smaller of the two courtrooms. It was a long, rectangular room with a high ceiling and plaster walls painted a pale yellow. Fake columns stood in the corners for decoration. The jury box was to the left and featured fixed chairs that both swiveled and rocked. The judge’s bench, made of dark walnut, stretched across the front. Most divorce trials were held in this courtroom, and Alexia liked the acoustics. The larger courtroom was reserved for serious criminal matters and major civil suits.
Alexia sat behind the bar and began skimming the deposition while Pinchot and the attorney on the other side prepared for the afternoon session. Pinchot’s clients, a man and woman in their early thirties, were seated with him. At the opposite table sat a younger lawyer with four middle-aged people clustered around him. Judge Garland entered and everyone stood.
“Are you ready for the jury to come back in?” the judge asked.
Pinchot spoke. “We need to discuss use of a deposition in lieu of live testimony. The witness is now deceased.”
The judge looked toward the other attorney, a young man about Alexia’s age whom she didn’t recognize.
“Any objection, Mr. Harrison?”
“Your Honor, I was not representing my clients at the time this deposition was taken, and it was conducted before additional information came to light that raises serious questions about the credibility of the witness who was deposed. To allow the deposition to be read into the record without an adequate opportunity for cross-examination would be seriously prejudicial to my clients.”
“Mr. Pinchot?” the judge asked.
Pinchot cleared his throat and stepped from behind the table.
“Judge, I appreciate Mr. Harrison’s dilemma; however, there was nothing to prevent the caveator’s previous lawyer from conducting a thorough investigation prior to the deposition of the witness. Furthermore, at the time the testimony was given, it was clearly stated on the record that the deposition was being taken for discovery and any other purposes allowed by the civil practice act. That includes use of the deposition at trial if the witness is unavailable.”
“Were those the stipulations?” the judge asked the younger lawyer.
“Yes, sir. But it was assumed that the witness would be available for trial.”
“She’s not,” the judge replied curtly, “and I’ll allow the deposition to be read.”
“May I interpose objections to the testimony that were not made at the time of the deposition?” Harrison asked.
“Yes, I’ll give you that latitude so long as you don’t abuse it. Bring in the jury.”
After the judge gave an explanation about use of deposition testimony to the jury, Pinchot called Alexia to the witness stand. Her mission was to become Mrs. Helen Jacklett. After several background questions, Pinchot cut to the heart of the issue.
“Mrs. Jacklett, do you remember the day that Mr. Keiffer came into the office to sign the will that has been marked as Exhibit A?”
“Yes, sir,” Alexia answered. “It was in the spring shortly before Easter.”
“Did you have any personal acquaintance with Mr. Keiffer prior to that time?”
“Oh, yes. He had been a client almost as long as I’d worked at the office. We were on a first-name basis and had talked hundreds of times over the years.”
“Based on your contact with him during the months prior to signing the will, how would you describe his mental state?”
“Sharp as ever. He was a very successful businessman, always on top of what was going on. Even after he retired, I think his company called him in as a consultant and—”
“Objection,” Harrison said. “Hearsay and lack of personal knowledge.”
“Sustained.”
“Begin at line 25,” Pinchot said.
Alexia glanced down the page. “He called me several weeks before changing his will and told me he wanted to redo his estate plan. I didn’t ask him why, but he mentioned several reasons.”
“What were those reasons?”
Harrison was on his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. That would be double hearsay. Neither Mr. Keiffer nor Mrs. Jacklett is available for cross-examination on this information and the testimony is therefore unreliable and prejudicial.”
Judge Garland compressed his lips. “Gentlemen, approach the bench.”
The lawyers stepped forward. Alexia knew what was about to happen but leaned close to listen.
“Mr. Harrison,” the judge said in an intense whisper, “if Mr. Keiffer were still alive, we wouldn’t be trying this case. His mental state during the time the will was prepared is the issue on trial, and I’ve already ruled that the testimony of this witness on this question can be presented by deposition.”
Pinchot spoke up. “I’m sure Mr. Harrison is aware of the law, Your Honor. His objection was for the jury, not the court.”
“Your Honor,” Harrison began, “if you allow—”
The judge interrupted in a voice that Alexia suspected carried all the way to the jury box. “Mr. Harrison, your objection is overruled, and if you make another objection on similar grounds, I will consider sanctions against you and your clients. Is that understood?”
The young lawyer’s face flushed. “Yes, sir.”
“Proceed.”
Pinchot stepped back and spoke to Alexia. “Please, answer the question.”
“He told me that the children of his first wife had depleted the assets of the inter vivos trust he’d established for them during a gambling trip to Las Vegas, and he wanted to change his will to leave most of his property to the children of his second wife.”
“Did he mention how much money was lost through gambling?”
Alexia saw Harrison squirming in his seat, but he kept his mouth shut.
“More than $200,000 during a Christmas vacation attended by all four of the children.”
“Did he give any other reasons for changing his will?”
Alexia looked toward the jury before she answered. “Yes, he mentioned that two of the children of his first wife wouldn’t let him see his grandchildren. He wasn’t even sure if the presents he sent the grandchildren on their birthdays were being delivered.”
Several jurors looked toward Harrison’s clients and frowned. The witness then described in detail the events surrounding the signing of the will. Pinchot’s questions brought the jury into the room with Mr. Keiffer. He then moved to the events surrounding the signing of the will.
“Did Mr. Keiffer express a clear understanding of the natural objects of his affection?”
“Yes. He named all his children and talked about each one. He expressed regrets about the conduct of the older children but still wanted to leave them something from his estate.”
“Was Mrs. Keiffer present at the will signing?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“She told him to do whatever he wanted to do.”
“Did she try to influence him in any way to favor her children?”
“No. Not at all.”
The cross-examination of the witness in the deposition by the other side’s first lawyer was inept and only reinforced the direct testimony. Alexia had read ahead enough to know that it would be fun to repeat the responses; however, when Pinchot finished, Harrison stood and said, “No questions, Your Honor.”
Alexia returned to her seat and listened to Pinchot conduct his direct examination of one of his clients, a woman who lived in Brunswick, Georgia. It was classic Pinchot. The client cried at the right time when talking about her father and avoided sounding like a greedy child. Pinchot knew better than anyone how to bring the focus of the jury onto his client. His direct examination questions floated softly across the courtroom without being intrusive. Harrison’s cross-examination was valiant but didn’t shake the witness’s credibility. When the woman stepped down, Alexia tapped Pinchot on the shoulder.
“You’re winning. I’m going to walk back to the office,” she said.
The older lawyer
was busy making notes and didn’t turn around. “Go ahead.”
Alexia stepped into the afternoon sun and looked up into the blue sky. She always learned something from watching Ken Pinchot. He didn’t call the other lawyer a shyster for knowingly interposing a lame objection; he aimed the judge in the right direction and watched him blast him. And he didn’t seek to be the constant center of attention when his case was better served by bringing the jury’s focus onto his witness.
Alexia could conduct a good direct examination, but she wasn’t sure she could have exercised the same restraint when dealing with an improperly manipulative lawyer on the other side. As she walked back to the office, she carefully filed the day’s lesson in her mind.
18
Fair stood the wind for France.
MICHAEL DRAYTON
Rena wanted Jeffrey to talk immediately with his father about terminating Baxter’s life support. Jeffrey counseled restraint as they walked from the parking deck to the hospital.
“Be patient,” he said. “I have a lot of experience dealing with my father. No one can read his moods better than I can. If I sat down with him now, it would only cause him to harden his position. We don’t even know if a decision is going to be necessary.”
“But in the meantime, Baxter continues to suffer,” Rena responded with frustration.
Jeffrey stepped closer to her and spoke softly. “Rena, calm down. Baxter doesn’t know what’s going on. You heard the doctors this morning. He doesn’t feel anything. His condition is critical but stable.”
Rena glanced away and stood still with her arms firmly folded. “Maybe, but I can’t go on like this indefinitely.”
Jeffrey touched her arm. “It won’t. When the time is right, I’ll speak up.”
After Jeffrey left, Rena stayed outside the hospital and sat on a bench near the entrance. From her vantage point, she could watch people leave without being noticed herself. She dialed the number for the lawyer from Charleston who had helped Jeffrey cancel the power of attorney. She identified herself as Baxter’s wife and asked for Rafe Grange. In a few seconds, a deep, southern voice came on the line.
Rena told him what had happened to Baxter. With each telling her twisted version of the events at the waterfall became more convincing.
“I’m very sorry,” the lawyer responded with obvious concern. “How can I help you? Although I know Jeffrey better, I consider your husband a friend.”
“It’s about the power of attorney that Mr. Richardson made Jeffrey and Baxter sign when they turned eighteen. Did Baxter ever ask you to help him cancel it?”
There was silence on the other line for several seconds. Rena began to wonder if it had been a mistake to call. There was no guarantee that the Charleston lawyer wasn’t connected with her father-in-law.
“Uh, hello,” she said. “Are you still there?”
“Yes, sorry. I was checking my computer for a file. I remember talking with Jeffrey about a power of attorney, but I don’t show any contact with Baxter. I never opened a file in his name. Do you want me to check with the other attorneys in our office?”
“Did any of them know Baxter?”
“I’m not sure, but I can find out.”
Rena gave him her cell number and hung up. The sky grew darker in concert with her mood. Rafe Grange was a dead end, and based on Jeffrey’s comments, she wasn’t sure she could rely on Alexia Lindale. As she brooded, Ezra came out of the building and lit a cigarette. Rena stayed in the shadows. When he disappeared into the parking deck, she went back into the hospital to continue her solitary vigil.
The Friday before her departure for France, Alexia arrived at the office at 6 A.M. Attorneys didn’t take vacations, only prolonged continuances from work that had to be done when they returned. Eight hours later the wooden surface of her desk was bare except for her blotter, the brass cup from Madagascar that she used to store extra pens, and a pale green stone paperweight from Peru. After a week’s absence, Alexia knew that mail would be stacked across the front of the desk like paper battlements awaiting her assault. She walked from her office to Gwen’s desk.
“What am I forgetting?” she asked.
“Plane tickets, passport, camera, sunscreen?” the secretary responded. “I think it’s sunny in southern France. Don’t forget an extra suitcase in case you meet the perfect man and want to bring him home as a souvenir.”
Alexia smiled slightly. “Everything is covered except the extra suitcase. You know one reason for the trip is to get rid of any remaining emotional baggage from Jason.”
“Which means you’ll have room for the right man on the return flight. If you don’t want to bring someone back for yourself, look for me.”
“You trust me to find the right one?”
Gwen shrugged. “You can’t do any worse than I have for myself. Just make sure he picks up his dirty clothes and speaks English with a romantic French accent.”
Alexia grabbed a piece of paper from Gwen’s desk and pretended to take notes. “The accent I can handle, but how am I supposed to find out about the dirty clothes?”
“You’re a lawyer!” Gwen exclaimed. “It should be easy compared to some of the dirty laundry you uncover for your clients.”
Alexia held her pen at ready. “Very clever. Any age requirements?”
Gwen thought for a moment. “About the same as me or slightly older. I don’t want to have to break in a younger man.”
Alexia put the cap back on the pen. “Consider it done,” she said.
Gwen patted the stacks of files Alexia had deposited on the floor beside the secretary’s desk.
“Oh, and you forgot to stop dictating. Between you and Leonard, I have enough work to make my fingers raw from typing.”
“I’ll buy you some expensive French hand lotion.”
“That would help.”
“And don’t worry about my dictation. There’s nothing lengthy. It’s mostly correspondence to delay things until I get back. Open my mail. If anything looks urgent, ask Ken Pinchot what to do.”
Gwen made a face. “By the way, what happened in the case you helped him with the other day?”
“The other side fired their lawyer an hour before closing arguments. It was a mess. The judge wouldn’t let them delay the trial, so they took a voluntary dismissal. I think it will go away. No attorney in their right mind would accept them as clients. Ken had the case nailed down tight.”
Gwen looked down at a list on her desk. “Where are your pets staying?”
“With a lady named Pat who has a small kennel on Highway 17. Boris loves it; Misha hates it. I’m taking them to her as soon as I get home.”
“Okay. That’s it. Go, before someone calls. Have a great trip.”
Alexia was walking down the hall when the receptionist buzzed Gwen.
“Is Alexia there? She didn’t pick up the page to her office.”
Gwen waited until Alexia turned the corner before answering. “She’s gone and won’t be back for a week.”
“It’s Rena Richardson. Did Alexia leave any instructions if she called?”
Gwen looked again at the stack of files. “Maybe, but I won’t know for a few days. Take her number and tell her Alexia is out of the country. If I find something in my dictation about Rena, I’ll call her myself.”
It was dusk when Alexia arrived in Marseille via Charleston, Atlanta, and Paris. She’d practiced her French with an Italian woman on the short flight from Paris but was tired and their accents didn’t mesh.
Alexia didn’t experience any sadness during the flight, but when she stepped through the gate at Marseille, she had a sharp twinge of regret. A handsome man with a joyful smile on his face and a bouquet of fresh flowers in his hand should have been waiting for her. Walking rapidly along the concourse next to impersonal strangers who were oblivious to her existence was not the way she’d dreamed of arriving in southern France. Alexia let a tear escape her right eye and pressed on.
She spent the first two nights i
n Aix-en-Provence just north of Marseille. She learned that the picturesque city was founded by the Romans as a military outpost in 122 B.C. For Alexia, it was a place to lay down her weapons, get in touch with herself, and think about what life had taught her.
As a litigator, Alexia had to maintain a sharp emotional edge because she never knew where the next blow would fall against one of her clients, and it always took her a couple of days away from the office to relax.
Aix-en-Provence was a perfect resting place. She dozed late the first morning in one of the softest beds she’d ever slept in. Surrounded by six white pillows and an eiderdown comforter, she felt as if she were sleeping in the clouds. The inn where she stayed was on a side street, and the only early morning sounds that came through the window of the second-story room were the friendly greetings of people on the street below. Because the townspeople spoke so rapidly, Alexia couldn’t distinguish the words, and any concerns they expressed didn’t disturb her dozing.
She ventured out in the early afternoon for a leisurely walk. Because she was alone, she set her own pace and visited the Roman ruins and a famous local university. The age of buildings in Europe always had an effect on her. Two-hundred-year-old structures in America are often placed on the National Register of Historic Places. In southern France, a two-hundred-year-old house was in robust middle age and attracted no particular attention. She walked across the stone floor of the Roman court. No women attorneys donned white togas to argue in Roman courts, and Alexia was glad she’d been born long after the stones were freshly hewn from the quarry. As the first female partner at Leggitt & Freeman, she would push the liberation of women a tiny step forward in her corner of the world. She was alive at the right time.
Provence has two seasons: July/August and the rest of the year. During the two summer months, it is difficult to find a vacant table at a restaurant, the inns are full, and the roads crowded with tourists. During the rest of the year, clerks in the stores pause to chat, tractors are as common as cars, and a meal that lasts less than two hours is considered a quick bite to eat. Alexia knew a late fall visit there would give her unhurried days of exploring and quiet evenings of dining.
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