Killer, Come Hither

by Louis Begley

  I nodded again, and thanked him.

  Then there is the question of your legal representation, once you qualify as the executor. The normal assumption is that you would ask this firm, and more specifically Fred, as your uncle’s longtime counsel who prepared his estate plan, to represent you. But you are free to retain another lawyer to assist you with the administration of the estate. Have you any thoughts about that subject?

  Seeing no reason to disguise my feelings, I told him that the chemistry between Mr. Minot and me wasn’t good. Probably, I continued, some of it is due to my being upset, but there it is. So I don’t think I’d like to have him as my lawyer. Are you proposing that some other lawyer in the firm could take over from him?

  That is certainly a possibility, Hobson answered speaking very slowly, and Fred I believe would accept such an arrangement.

  Then let me think about it, I said. I’ll let you know my decision before the end of the week.

  It was Hobson’s turn to nod.

  There are a couple of other matters, I went on, if you have another moment for me.

  Again Hobson nodded.

  Are you aware of anything related to the firm or my uncle Harry’s work that would have pushed him to take his life or anyway unbalanced him to a very considerable extent? I find his suicide, and the method he chose, and the absence of any letter of explanation absolutely bewildering. He was in excellent physical health, he had no money problems, he had no emotional involvements that had gone wrong, and when I said goodbye to him some three months ago, before setting out for South America, he was in a fine frame of mind. What could have happened?

  Hobson recrossed his long legs, seemed lost for a moment in the study of his beautifully polished wingtips, and rubbed his hands as though to warm them.

  Jack, he said, it pains me to say so, but Harry had been losing his edge. Nothing one would necessarily remark upon in ordinary life, but the practice of law at the highest level—and that was Harry’s practice—makes demands that have no parallel. A man may be the most charming of uncles, dinner companions, and so forth, appear able to hold his own in conversation, and at the same time secretly founder when it comes to finding solutions to complex legal problems or squeezing the meaning out of vast troves of information. Those working with him eventually notice. More painful yet, the poor fellow to whom this is happening comes to be aware of it as well. It’s a process that can be slower than the motion of a glacier. But it can also accelerate suddenly, for no ostensible reason. In Harry’s case the situation became apparent to his principal client, a client let it be clearly understood of great importance to the firm, none other than Abner Brown himself. To such an extent that some weeks before you left on your well-deserved holiday Abner found it necessary to come to see me and state that he no longer wished your uncle to work on his matters. He cited instances in which Harry’s judgment had been seriously clouded and his emotional equilibrium appeared doubtful. As you can imagine this was a shocking revelation and a terrible blow to me on a personal level—Harry and I were taken into the firm the same year—and from the point of the firm. The Brown business accounts for a large percentage of our gross and keeps many partners and associates busy. I was fearful that Abner would announce a withdrawal of all that work from the firm or in any event a substantial part. As it turned out, I was able to avert that disaster. Abner accepted my proposal that I take over Harry’s responsibilities. I made the proposal because I thought I must, even though combining Abner’s work with my responsibilities as the firm’s chairman hasn’t been easy and won’t get any easier. It was part of that arrangement, I am sorry to say, that I agreed to break the news to Harry and explain to him the reason. Abner didn’t have the courage to do it—or perhaps he thought that it would be easier for Harry if I were the messenger. So that’s what I did. It was one of the hardest missions I’ve had to undertake in my life. Harry was devastated. I urged him to seek the help of a first-rate neurologist to deal with the physical aspect, and a psychiatrist to help him on the emotional plane, and I made recommendations as to the doctors, but I don’t know whether he followed through. I also pleaded with him—the word is not too strong—not to seek out Abner, not to expose himself to a disappointed client’s bitterness. I know for a fact that he disregarded that advice and went out to Houston to see Abner. I have Abner’s version of what transpired, which as you will appreciate I’m not at liberty to share with you. I will only add that I told Harry it was necessary for him to retire—at the latest as of the first day of the new year so as to make a clean break. It was in everybody’s interest. He had not yet reached the age at which he could do so and receive full pension, but I assured him that the firm would waive the full-vesting rule so that from a financial point of view he would be just fine. To sum up, my dear Jack, I’m afraid that there were circumstances that may explain what Harry did. Especially if he did not consult a psychiatrist, if nothing had been done to lighten his mood, to get him out of the pit of depression.

  How horrible! I said. So it looks as though Abner Brown and the firm may have combined to kill Harry.

  Hobson turned purple and rose from his chair. I resent that! he shouted. How dare you! Take that back at once and apologize!

  I rose as well and said, I do take it back. I should have said that it looks as though your decisions had caused him to kill himself. You’ve said as much yourself, in somewhat different words.

  Hobson sat down, and so did I.

  Did Harry continue to come to the office after you had that conversation? I asked, judging that I could take advantage of a temporary cease-fire. Did he accede to your order—or request—that he retire?

  Yes to both questions. He did come to the office and disengaged—quite successfully—from his other client assignments. He did retire as of the first of this year, so that when he killed himself he was a retired partner. The decision to retire made it easier of course to explain to his non-Brown clients why he was reassigning their matters. I should add, Jack, and this is important, that nobody in the firm except my deputy and one partner helping me on the Brown matters knows about Harry’s dementia. I thought it was best for him and for the firm to keep that quiet. As you can imagine, there are serious liability issues. Lawyers’ mistakes are like time bombs. They explode and come to light unexpectedly. If Harry’s condition were known, there could be difficult questions raised as to when the firm’s management became aware of it, what kind of supervision we exercised, and on and on. His condition would also weigh heavily on the issue of negligence. Those considerations are naturally in addition to our respect for Harry’s privacy and dignity.

  And Mr. Minot, I asked, did he know?

  Not even he.

  I nodded and said, There is an awful lot here for me to think about and grieve for. There is another thing I want to mention. It’s Harry’s personal papers. I asked Mr. Minot to have them sent to me and he said that was a request I should make to you. I really would like to have them.

  My dear Jack, Hobson replied, a form of address that surprised me considering my very recent outburst, we have been through Harry’s files. There are no papers in them that are, as you put it, personal. All his papers relate directly or indirectly to his office work and as such are the firm’s property. Most of them are also covered by client privilege that would preclude their release to you even if the firm otherwise wished to hand them over. I must disappoint you.

  But that can’t be! I exclaimed. For instance my letters to him. My parents’ letters to him. His correspondence with friends, with the women who were an important part of his life. I have always understood that they were in the office, in the files maintained by Miss Diamond.

  Another tragedy, said Hobson. All I can tell you is that those letters aren’t here. He must have removed them, once he understood that he was leaving the firm. Perhaps you had better look for them at his apartment, or in the Sag Harbor house.

  He stood up and held out his hand.

  I shook it and was almost
out the door when he called out: Don’t forget to let me know whether you want us to represent you!

  V

  Jeanette was at my apartment when I got there and began to cry as soon as she saw me.

  Welcome home, Captain Jack, she exclaimed between sobs that shook her large and robust frame as I embraced her. I was beginning to think you’d never return. Poor Mr. Harry! Who could have imagined such an end? I’ve been praying for his soul, but it’s no good. He comes to me in my dreams looking just the same as always, only so sad and kind of lost. I’ve never been so lonely, not since my Walter died.

  Walter was her late husband, an army master sergeant, killed in the first year of the Iraq War by an IED that ripped apart him, another NCO, and the driver, as well as the Humvee in which they were riding. I did not think I should remind her that in fact I had written down the date of my return and posted it on the bulletin board in the kitchen.

  What’s going to become of me after all these years with Mr. Harry? she wailed.

  I gave her another hug and said, Shush, I’m awfully sad too, but it’s going to be all right for you, you’ll see.

  The fact was that I had just made an impulsive decision I knew I wouldn’t go back on. Fuck Minot and estate taxes. So he thought that my earnings from my books and film had been considerable! The condescending creep didn’t begin to know how much money I’d made. I knew I could manage what I was undertaking.

  No one will ever replace my uncle, I told her. It can’t be. But you and I will soldier on. Uncle has left me the Fifth Avenue apartment. I’m going to move into it just as soon as you and I pack up here, and I hope that you’ll stay with me. Same deal as with Uncle Harry. Is that something you want to do? Before you answer, you should know that Uncle left you a nice present under his will. The lawyer at the law firm, Mr. Minot, who prepared the will, told me. So what do you think? Do you want to go on taking care of a rascal like me?

  Captain Jack, she replied, you’re the best. I’ll look after you as long as you want me and my old legs carry me. First thing I’m going to do is make you a nice cup of coffee.

  She had already unpacked the duffel bag I’d dropped off on the way from the airport before meeting Kerry, so while she fussed about the coffee I was able to sit down at my desk and look at the accumulated mail. There was a lot of it, almost all consigned by Jeanette to the junk mail category. I rummaged through the stack and agreed with her judgments. Appeals for money from causes I didn’t support, offers to buy my apartment, prospectuses for snake oil. In the other tiny stack were also appeals for money from my prep school and Yale, a package sent by Felicity containing a Christmas card and photos she’d taken on her family vacation in Kitzbühel, and routine correspondence from my literary agent. Books one and two were selling briskly. I’d already received bonus payments on account of the film’s gross receipts in the U.S. and at this rate it looked as though my tiny percentage of the net would kick in. The interest in book number three was very lively. When would it be finished?

  When Jeanette brought in the coffee and slices of pound cake—she told me she’d baked it as soon as Kerry called and said I’d be home the next morning—I asked her to sit down, inquired about her daughters and grandchildren, and moved on to the subject that was gnawing at me. I decided to approach it obliquely and asked first whether Mr. Minot had paid her everything she was owed, including reimbursement for supplies and food.

  Oh yes, Mr. Jack, she told me, he came to the apartment several times, asked for the accounts, and paid me right away. He’s a nice gentleman.

  Her answer gave me the opening I needed.

  That’s excellent, I said, did he come to get Uncle’s mail? Or was there anything else?

  Oh yes, she told me, the mail was picked up regularly, by him, his secretary, or a young lawyer, oh yes, once a week. But Mr. Minot didn’t bother much with that. He said he needed to go through Mr. Harry’s papers for things that had to do with Mr. Harry’s property and taxes, and he spent quite a lot of time doing that, looking at Mr. Harry’s files in the library and in the desk in the master bedroom. He said he also needed to check Mr. Harry’s computer. He took it back to the office with him, and the secretary brought it back a few days later. There was also a problem with the safe. Mr. Minot asked if I knew the combination. I said that I sure didn’t, so he came the next day with a technician who worked on it maybe an hour before he got it open. That’s when Mr. Minot called me in and asked me to stay in the library so that I would see they only looked for papers and didn’t touch any of the jewelry boxes that were there.

  I felt both disgust and relief. Those boxes held my grandmother’s jewelry, which Harry had told me he was keeping for my wife.

  And were there any papers? I asked.

  Only Mr. Harry’s passport, she told me, and envelopes with cash. Dollars, and some foreign money. Mr. Harry always said he wanted to have cash around in case there was another big power failure or another 9/11 and he couldn’t get money out of the ATM. They left everything right there and closed the safe.

  I see, I said. And what about the other papers they had looked at. Did they take any of them away?

  She shook her head. I’m really sorry, but I can’t tell, Captain Jack. I didn’t stay with them all the time.

  Of course, you didn’t, I told her. You’ve had a terrible time, Jeanette. I now wish with all my heart I had stayed in New York. I wish I hadn’t gone on that stupid trip. Perhaps Uncle Harry would still be alive. I try and try, but I just can’t get it into my head that he took his own life. Do you think there was something the matter with him, some health problem that had come up? Some other reason? I wish I could understand!

  Don’t you go and blame yourself, Captain Jack, she answered. It was God’s will, not something you could have prevented. Mr. Harry was just fine. He wasn’t sick or anything. He told me it made him sad to retire, because he’d miss the firm and the nice young people he worked with, but he’d been thinking and decided that forty-two years on the job was long enough. He had enough money. He wanted to travel. Oh, and God bless him he had another idea: he said he was going to go back to the piano. He hadn’t touched that piano in the living room for thirty years, but he was going to take lessons and learn once again to play it good. So he even had it tuned. So like I say, there was no reason for him to do a thing like that. It was God’s will.

  Or the devil’s, I thought.

  All right, Jeanette, I said, I guess you’re right. I’m dead tired from the plane and from everything I’ve heard today about Uncle Harry. I’m going to hit the sack for a couple of hours, and then I’m going to have dinner with Kerry Black.

  Miss Kerry! Mr. Harry sure loved her! Jeanette interjected. You give her a big hug from me.

  That’s right, I said, he did, and I will give her the biggest hug I know how. Please keep coming here this week as usual. We’ll start packing. I’d like to move to Fifth Avenue next week.

  —

  It was almost eight when I woke from a dreamless sleep. I made tea, drank two cups so hot they burned my mouth, and ate another slice of Jeanette’s cake. Then I called Scott on his cell phone. Although he was still at the office, he answered right away. I told him briefly what had happened.

  You poor bastard, he said. What a mess to come home to! Would you like to take a break and come down to D.C. for the weekend?

  I thanked him and said that the mess was one I had to come to grips with, the sooner the better. If I went anywhere it would be to Sag Harbor, as part of dealing with the mess. But I wanted a rain check for D.C.

  It’s yours, he told me, and it’s renewable.

  And would you consider coming to the city or possibly Sag Harbor? I may ask you to do that.

  The answer was yes, as I had expected.

  I took stock. Scott and Kerry, my old prep school and Yalie pal and my uncle’s favorite associate and most recently his partner. It might not seem like much, but I thought that the quality of those two made up for the tenuousness of my
ties to Kerry—a condition I hoped to remedy soon—and for the narrowness of my circle of friendships. The truth was anyway there was no one else I would want to ask for help, and no one else I wanted to see. In the midst of misfortune, I considered myself lucky.

  The Korean on Lexington Avenue between Seventy-Eighth and Seventy-Ninth Streets was open. He sold good flowers. Jeanette got them there for Fifth Avenue unless Harry had ordered an arrangement from his preferred florist, across the avenue from the Korean. I picked up fifteen yellow roses—thus sparing Kerry, I thought, the need to interpret the statement she might have thought I was making if the roses I brought were red—and at five past nine rang her doorbell.

  —

  That she too attached importance to my visit became apparent to me as soon as she opened the door and I saw that she had changed into a long sheath of blue-and-green Indian silk and gold lamé ballet slippers. Instead of the habitual chignon, her hair was down, almost to her shoulders. For the first time I noticed that she had big feet—big even for such a tall girl—and unaccountably I found that touching. It was just possible that in this day of outrageous women’s shoes, designed to compel attention, they were not her favorite feature. Not to worry: I was willing to adopt them. The impression that she had made an effort was confirmed, and my trepidation grew, when I followed her into the living room. Everywhere, it seemed, on the coffee table, on the table in the dining room area, on the window ledge, stood vases of yellow and pink tulips. She would have gotten them on her way home from the office. Perhaps, if she had picked up groceries, she’d had to make two trips. I didn’t think it likely that this overworked Jones & Whetstone junior partner regularly turned her apartment into a lush bower—I didn’t recall seeing any flowers at the time of my previous visit—or set her table for dinner with what I recognized was sterling silver and cut-crystal glasses.