“Sam? Belle?” I called.
“In here,” they said in tandem, giggling.
Their voices came from the second bedroom, and on a light step I made my way toward them. They were sitting cross-legged on the floor with Rashidi.
My eyebrows crept up. “Well, good morning, all.”
“Hey, Mom!” Sam leapt to his feet, his limbs unfolding slowly. He took two loping steps and hugged me off the ground.
“Mmph,” I said.
“Gross!” He answered and set me back down. “You’re sweaty.” He looked at his hands. “And buggy.”
“And you’re a surprise.”
Now he found his toes with his eyes. “Yeah, well, we were between camp sessions, and I kinda . . . um . . . missed everybody, and Terrence went home and I didn’t get along with the guy that was in charge of my group and—”
“And it wasn’t super awesome anymore so you came home.”
“Yeah. I came home.” He lifted his gaze to me with his face still pointed at the floor. Those big brown eyes, soft and kind underneath his Bambi lashes.
I could forgive him nearly anything. Showing up unannounced? It wasn’t the first time.
“I’m not mad at you.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “But I do want to know what’s going on with you.”
“Well . . .” He grinned and stole a glance at Annabelle and Rashidi.
I waved at the floor between them. “When did you get here, Rashidi?”
“Let the boy answer.” He flashed his brilliant white smile at me.
“Okay, boy,” I said to Sam. “Answer.”
“I was thinking that—” He shifted from foot to foot. “That I could get a job here and not go back. I mean, if that’s okay with you.”
“Did you get fired?” I watched his face closely.
“I didn’t get fired before, but I wasn’t supposed to leave, either.”
“So you’ll be fired if you go back?”
He shrugged his shoulders. The boney knobs rose toward his ears and fell comically. He was like an overgrown puppy dog. Not big enough for his long legs and bear paws yet.
I shook my head. “You shouldn’t have done it without telling me, Sam. But how about we talk after I’ve had time to think?”
He smiled then pulled his mouth back down into a serious expression. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t be celebrating yet. I haven’t made up my mind what to do with you.” I swatted him on the arm. “Now, the rest of my questions. You.” I pointed to Rashidi. “Your story.”
“I fetched breakfast. It’s in the kitchen.” He winked. “And I met Sam and been showin’ kids dem how to break a safe.”
“It’s so cool, Michele,” Annabelle squealed.
“I didn’t see your car.”
“I parked it on the side. Your grass is getting damaged in front.” He stood and stuck a toothpick in his mouth.
He was such a nice guy, which made me want to hate him and was probably why I snapped, “Do you have to do that?”
His eyes widened. “What?”
“The toothpick?”
He removed it and stuck it in his pocket without looking at me.
“I’m sorry. I—”
“It’s okay.”
I tried to fix things, my voice bright. “Do I smell bacon?”
Sam bounced up and down on his toes. “Breakfast tacos. Rashidi brought eight of them, all different kinds with potatoes and bacon and sausage and cheese and hot sauce and—”
“Whoa!” I held up my hands and laughed. “How many have you eaten?”
“Only two.”
He was wide-eyed, and I laughed.
I took my Shuffle off my shirt. “I’m going to get some breakfast.”
On the countertop, I saw the bag I hadn’t noticed earlier. I peeked inside. Black Sharpie identified the different options, and I picked bacon, egg, and potato. Before I’d even unwrapped it, my phone made the sound of voice mail, although I hadn’t heard it ring. I glanced at the screen. Greyhound. I made a growling noise.
“Is that yours?” Rashidi asked from the other room.
“Yes. Greyhound. There’s a voice mail.”
I put it on speaker. Rashidi walked into the kitchen. We both stared at the phone as Greyhound’s message played.
“There’s a hearing on Ms. Becker’s estate today, in about half an hour at the courthouse in Giddings. I wanted you to know about it. You don’t have to be there if you don’t want to. I’ve got it covered. It’s on the motion I filed for a temporary injunction against the pipeline company and anyone else that the Houston Arts Trust has authorized to do work. And of course the opposing attorney has also filed a motion of her own to stop you from writing the book, as well as one contesting the will.” He cleared his throat. “Well, I guess I’ll see you later, maybe.”
The message ended.
“Bastardo,” I spat.
Rashidi raised his eyebrows nearly as high as the corners of his mouth. “It’s a good day for a battle, don’t you think?”
I jutted out my chin. “Damn straight.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
With Greyhound’s less than timely notice about the hearing, I was pressed for time. I jumped in the shower and threw myself together in the third-least-casual outfit I’d brought from Houston. I didn’t notice the big coffee stain on it until I’d pulled up in front of the three-story red-brick courthouse on the square in Giddings.
“Caca del toro.”
I stared at the building, starting from the limestone base to the stone arches, polished columns, square clock tower, and distinctive black and gold clock face. It was majestic and deserved a better effort than my dirty above-the-knee light-green shirtdress. I’d never have worn an outfit like this to court when I was practicing law in Houston. But there was nothing I could do about it.
I galloped up the blue granite steps into the building, then ran to the light well in the center of the building, my sandals clopping like horseshoes on the multicolored marble tile. There were signs marking the different rooms and their functions, so I barely hesitated before following the one that pointed to the district court up the stairs. I hauled myself up by the iron balustrade around the well to the second floor. When I reached the entrance to the courtroom, I was out of breath. I stopped for a split second to compose myself, huffing more than I liked. I licked my lips and tasted salt, not wax. I’d forgotten my lipstick. Oh well. I threw open one of the massive doors, and it slammed against the wall in the corridor. The sound reverberated both in the hallway and the two-story courtroom. Every head swiveled to see what had interrupted the proceedings, except for the short judge—a watered-down Hispanic, like me. The placard in front of him said The Honorable Judge Raul Gonzales. He looked up at me slowly, glowering from his elevated bench. Over his head four arches towered, decorated in cobalt-blue stenciling. My breath caught in my throat. It was stunning.
“Excuse me.” I ducked my head.
I walked to the front row on the left and took a seat. I was the only one on that side of the courtroom except for a few old men I’d passed in the back. If they were anything like the regulars I’d known in Houston, they attended court in lieu of watching Judge Judy. Free entertainment and good local gossip.
In front of me sat Greyhound, pretending he didn’t know I’d arrived. The backs of his ears and neck were red, though. Busted. He was alone at the plaintiff’s table with a big banged-up leather trial case in the chair beside him. It had weathered brass buckles and the remains of what looked like his name embossed in gold.
Judge Gonzales said, “We’re ready for the matter of probate in the estate of Anna Becker. Are the attorneys present?”
Greyhound stood. “Eldon Smith for the estate, Your Honor.”
A black-pin-stripe-suited woman I hadn’t seen before—tall and thin in snakeskin pumps, with long, wavy black hair worn loose down her back—stood. She wore red lipstick and kohl liner and her face was eerily pale.
“Nancy L
ittle for the parties in opposition to Mr. Smith’s claims and for the rightful estate, Your Honor.” Her voice was deep and gravelly in a small-town drawl that suggested she was faking it to fit in.
She sat and so did Greyhound. Attorney Little took a moment to openly check me out. She dipped her head, but I didn’t return the gesture.
The judge licked his index finger and thumbed through the pages in front of him. “We have a number of emergency motions to cover today.”
While he was perusing his notes, I surveyed the gallery to the right, behind, and above me. The second-floor balcony ringing the back half of the courtroom was empty. Down below and as expected, I saw Lester Tillman. He was ever the dapper old fop. The old men in the back of the gallery were going to have a field day describing him to their cronies. A woman sat on the same row as him, but it didn’t appear they were together. Maybe she was with one of the other defendants. She had dark shoulder-length hair, and looked like she was in her sixties. One row behind them, Jimmy Urban sat hunched over. I kept watching him, but he seemed to find his hands endlessly fascinating. There were several others I didn’t recognize, white men in city clothes, except for two guys in the finest Fire Hose and chamois apparel that Duluth Trading had to offer. Lonestar Pipeline guys, I thought.
“So, Counselor Smith,” the judge intoned.
Greyhound rose, bumping into the table. The water in his glass lapped at the edges.
“You’re seeking a temporary injunction that all parties cease and desist any and all pipeline-related work on the property of Anna Becker in Lee County, said property part of the estate subject to probate in this court, and specifically against the Houston Arts Trust, Lonestar Pipeline, Cypress Surveyors, and any contractors they may retain. Is that correct?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Greyhound said.
Greyhound stepped to his right so he was no longer behind the table. I braced myself for something to hit the floor, but he made it without incident. “Your Honor, Ms. Becker executed her Last Will and Testament with me one month ago, a document I prepared for her at her cogent and specific instruction. I duly filed it with the court as prescribed by state law after her death. We are seeking an injunction against the”—he waved vaguely at the right-hand side of the courtroom—“others, most specifically, the Houston Arts Trust and those they have contracted with, comprising, at a minimum, the two parties represented here, Lonestar Pipeline and Cypress Surveyors.” He held both hands in front of his hips, palms up. He sounded like a revival preacher, a very old-fashioned one. And he looked like one, too.
“There may be others, Your Honor, but we have not been made privy to that information, if so. Opposing counsel claims to be in possession of a previous will executed by Ms. Becker before her current Last Will and Testament; however, opposing counsel did not file it with the court until she did so in opposition to Ms. Becker’s rightful will, already entered into probate. Then, knowing that the issue of disposition of the estate was contested, the opposing parties entered into contractual arrangements with no legal standing to do so, contracts which will result in substantial harm to the property owned by the estate of Ms. Becker in its continued use as a residence and farm. Opposing counsel did not inform me—the attorney for the estate—nor did she inform the executor appointed by Ms. Becker, Mr. Ralph Cardinal. And while we will prove in due course the validity of Ms. Becker’s Last Will and Testament filed with the court, we are asking the court to rule that the Houston Arts Trust cannot contract away or in any way diminish the assets of the estate or make substantial and irreparable changes thereto, pending resolution of all probate issues, a ruling which would encompass the work of Lonestar Pipeline, Cypress Surveyors, and anyone they might contract with. We respectfully request that the court rule in favor of our temporary injunction, to protect the estate.”
Attorney Little rose like a black swan. “If I may, Your Honor.”
The judge nodded. “Be my guest.”
“Your Honor, my clients, the Houston Arts Trust and their trustee, Mr. Lester Tillman, are completely within their rights to have not yet filed Ms. Becker’s rightful Last Will and Testament with the court because the time period to do so has not expired. In addition, Mr. Tillman acted within his rights in relying upon his valid Power of Attorney on behalf of Ms. Becker in taking steps to increase the value of the estate for its intended purpose as a source of ongoing funds for a nonprofit institution, benefiting the arts in Houston. On the other hand, we have every reason to believe that the document to which Mr. Smith refers, the one he prepared and the one that Ms. Becker signed one month ago, is invalid due to her lack of testamentary capacity.”
Her tone elevated my blood pressure, and her faux country accent grated on my nerves. If I could see it, surely Judge Gonzales could too.
“Validity, Ms. Little, will be decided at a later date.”
“Of course, Your Honor, but it is germane to the temporary injunction motion, is it not? The injunction, if granted, will cause substantial and irreparable financial harm to my clients. Doesn’t it stand, then, that all evidence that supports our position should be considered, to prevent this harm from occurring? We have a witness who will testify as to Ms. Becker’s lack of testamentary capacity at the time she entered into this invalid will with Mr. Smith here today. May we call our witness, Your Honor?”
I expected Greyhound to object. When he didn’t, I was on my feet before I realized what I was doing. The judge glared at me, and I lowered myself until my butt hovered over my seat. I couldn’t help but hiss anyway. “Objection. Objection!” But Greyhound didn’t make one, and I felt my insides cave in.
“I’ll hear your witness, Attorney Little, if there’s no objection from the other party.”
The judge was hinting for Greyhound to object. Come on, Greyhound.
Greyhound half stood, shaking his head and teetering his chair. He caught it with one hand as he answered. “No, Your Honor.”
I wanted to scream. Heavy steps clomped up the aisle. Jimmy Urban made his way from the gallery to the witness box. My brain felt fuzzy. Was he their witness, or was he ours? I put my fist to my mouth, scared to hear what would come out of his mouth. The court reporter swore him in.
Attorney Little got right to the point, without asking permission to treat Jimmy as a hostile witness. “Mr. Urban, you have had occasion to observe Ms. Becker’s behavior and mental capacity on an almost daily basis in the last five years. Have you not?”
He nodded.
“You’ll have to speak so the court reporter can hear you, Mr. Urban.” The judge’s voice was clipped and impatient.
Jimmy cleared his throat. “Sorry. Yep. I mean, yes, ma’am.”
“How did you come to have this level of interaction with her?”
“Mr. Tillman hired me to keep an eye on her.”
I gasped loudly, and Jimmy shot me a dirty look. All his humiliation and anger all those years ago. Darlene told me Jimmy’d found Gidget in Houston, had shown up on her doorstep. So of course Lester had met him, too. Lester knew exactly who harbored a grudge against Gidget. I’d fallen for Jimmy’s big-heart-in-a-rough-package routine, and I felt foolish. Anger thrummed hot inside me and burned out my fear of how Jimmy would testify.
Attorney Little craned her neck around to the judge but spoke to Jimmy. “Could you elaborate a little on that, please?”
“Well, uh, I reckon about the time Anna got sick—back in Houston—Mr. Tillman called me up, asking for my help.”
“What kind of help?”
“To move her back out to her family place.”
“Anything else?”
Jimmy didn’t bat an eye. “Report back to him regular on how she was doing.” He shrugged. “That’s about it.”
“And Mr. Tillman hired you to do these things?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How often did you speak to Mr. Tillman?”
“He’d give me a call once a month.”
“And what did you tell him about Ms. B
ecker?”
I clenched my fists.
“How she was doing.”
“In the last year, what exactly did you tell Mr. Tillman about how Ms. Becker was doing?”
“About the same. Not so good.”
“And what do you mean by ‘not so good’ and ‘about the same’?”
Greyhound got to his feet, knocking his pen off the counsel table. It rolled across the floor, but no one went after it. “Objection. He’s not a doctor.”
“He can testify to his own meaning, can’t he, Your Honor? He is the only one who can, in fact.”
The judge rubbed his chin. “I’ll permit it for now.”
“Go ahead, Mr. Urban,” Attorney Little urged, swooping toward him.
“That she seemed kinda out of it most days. Couldn’t remember things, didn’t feel good, needed help. Got confused.”
He could have been describing me, lately, and I didn’t lack testamentary capacity.
“Thank you, Mr. Urban. That’s all for now, Your Honor.”
“Greyhound?” the judge asked, slipping out of the formality of court-speak for a moment.
Greyhound didn’t stand. “So, Jimmy, when you were hired by”—Greyhound’s voice sounded like he was sucking a lemon—“Lester, what did he tell you he wanted to hear?”
“Uh . . . how she was doing.”
“Let me make myself more clear. What did Lester tell you he wanted Ms. Becker’s condition to be?”
Jimmy frowned. “I don’t get your meaning.”
Greyhound stood, and nothing on the table or chair rattled. “Permission to treat the witness as hostile, Your Honor.”
“Granted.”
“Did Lester at any point tell you that you were to tell him Gidget had mental issues, like senility, dementia, mental incompetency, or anything like that?”
“Objection, Your Honor.” Attorney Little’s voice was sharp, pecking. “He’s already testified as to what he was to do.”
Wrong objection, I thought. Not that I was going to stand up and help her.
Fighting for Anna Page 29
