The Twelfth Child

by Bette Lee Crosby

  Two days later, Charles McCallum received a notice indicating that Judge Kensington had granted the motion. “But,” Destiny exclaimed, “I won’t have enough money to pay you.” She suggested she could take on the Saturday dinner shift, which usually meant pretty good tips, “I’ll pay on the installment plan,” she said. “Twenty-five dollars a week?”

  Charles laughed, “Why, that would take years!”

  Destiny, completely oblivious to the twinkle in his eyes, sighed. “I suppose,” she said, “I could sell my car.”

  Charles laughed again, then reached across the desk and took her hand in his. “First, let’s concentrate on proving you’re innocent,’ he told her, “then we’ll worry about the money.” That afternoon, after they finished reviewing the interrogatory transcripts, he took her to lunch. He hooked his arm through hers and strolled past the luncheonette, past the pizza parlor and into Stephano’s – where they sat at a linen clothed table and shared a bottle of wine.

  “I owe you so much,” Destiny cooed in that sweet-voiced way of hers and I watched Charles McCallum’s face melt into a boyish grin of satisfaction. Anybody with half an eyeball could see what was happening, and I’d already noticed that he didn’t have any woman’s picture sitting on his desk nor was he wearing a wedding ring. Back when I was a young woman very few men wore wedding rings so you couldn’t tell if they were married or not; and I can certainly bear witness to all the heartache that causes.

  The second day of depositions started off with a barrage of questions. Where was this, where was that, what about the silver coffee service which, in all honesty, never existed. Elliott was insistent that there was more money and a bunch of valuables his lawyer had not yet uncovered, so he continued writing notes to Mister Hoggman. Each time a slip of paper was unfolded, the lawyer would ask about another far-fetched thing. “Diamonds, maybe? Gold Bullion?”

  Destiny swore that, far as she knew, I had no other assets. Elliott, making no effort to control himself, gave a loud facetious snort and Charles suggested that he be removed from the proceedings. Mister Hoggman claimed such an action wouldn’t be necessary as his client had just been excising a frog from his throat, and, he assured, it wouldn’t happen again.

  After that they went back to the questioning and Mister Hoggman got onto Destiny’s relationship with me. “Exactly when did you meet Abigail Anne Lannigan?” he asked and belched up the odor of pickled herring.

  “Let’s see now,” Destiny mumbled, obviously trying to come up with an honest answer. “Six years ago. I know it was six years ago, because I met her a few months after I moved into my house.” She started to tell how the newspaper was stuck on the roof, but right off Charles whispered in her ear that she should stick to the shortest possible answers, and so she left the rest of the story untold.

  “And, you were employed by Miss Lannigan for that entire period?”

  “I didn’t work for Miss Abigail,” she answered. “We were friends.”

  “Ah,” he sighed in the most gratified manner, “so you charged one hundred dollars a month to be her friend?”

  “I didn’t charge for being her friend!” Destiny snapped.

  Before she could finish what she’d started to say, he was back at her. “Then it wasn’t a salary? You just used her account to arbitrarily write yourself a check for one hundred dollars every month?”

  “That’s not it at all. I took the money because she insisted on paying me.”

  “Oh, really?” He let go a rolling belch that rumbled up from a place so far down, it brought back the odor of kosher hot dogs he’d eaten two days ago. “Did Abigail Lannigan ever sign those checks made out to you?” Without giving her time to answer, he repeated, “Ever? Even one time?”

  Destiny’s lip started quivering. “Well, no,” she answered. “That’s what Miss Abigail had me do – write checks, take care of her financial affairs.”

  “Judging from these,” he slammed a stack of bank statements down in front of her, “You took care of yourself!”

  Charles jumped out of his chair so fast that at first I thought he was going to take a swing at someone, but instead he growled, “That’s not a question!” He told Herbert J. Hoggman to stick to asking questions and keep his opinions to himself, then declared it was time to break for lunch.

  “But,” Hoggman stammered, “I’ve got more questions.” However, by that time Charles had taken hold of Destiny’s arm and they’d started out the door.

  After lunch Hoggman picked up where he’d left off. “In December of last year,” he snarled, “you were the recipient of a twenty-five thousand dollar cashier’s check that was purchased with funds from the Lannigan account. Explain that!”

  Destiny could tell he’d had fried chicken for lunch. She waited for the smell to pass by, and then said, “It was a Christmas present from Miss Abigail.”

  “Christmas present? You already stated Miss Lannigan gave you an all-expense-paid trip to Palm Beach for Christmas. Have you forgotten you told me that? Or, was it a lie?” He slammed his hand against the table. “Why don’t you just tell the truth – you helped yourself to that money, didn’t you?”

  “No!” Destiny shouted. “I did not! It was a present from Miss Abigail!”

  “Oh, really? And just what Christmas gift did you give her?”

  “A silk nightgown and a feather boa.”

  “How generous!” Hoggman sneered as if he’d proven a point. He then stretched his jaw open and gurgled up a burp with a stench that caused the stenographer to pause and wave it from beneath her nose.

  “Excuse me,” the stenographer said, “could you repeat that last statement.”

  “How generous!” Hoggman roared sarcastically. “I was making a point of how generous this little swindler was to her victim!”

  “Okay! That’s enough!” Charles handed Hoggman a roll of Tums. “Either you restrain yourself from such unprofessional behavior, or this deposition is over. As a matter of fact,” he said eyeing his watch, “I think my client has had enough for today – we’ll stop right here.”

  Hoggman didn’t challenge the statement, but walked out and left the Tums lying on the conference room table.

  “I could use a glass of wine,” Charles said, as he and Destiny left the building. “How about you?”

  She nodded. She would have answered, told him that she’d like nothing better, maybe even mentioned something about how she was hoping he’d ask, but there was a tremor stuck in her throat, a squashed down moan of exasperation.

  They walked east on Charter Street and before they’d gone a block, Charles linked his arm through hers. “Don’t worry,” he said in the most comforting manner, “you’re doing fine. Depositions are always difficult. Especially with Hoggman – he works at being obnoxious.”

  The tremor in Destiny’s throat grew larger and caused her words to sound wrinkled, folded over, stacked on top of each other. “I’m not,” she mumbled, “not what he said. I never, never, ever swindled – she was, we were –”

  Charles stopped walking and loosened his arm from hers. “Why would you think,” he said, taking hold of her shoulders, “you need to tell me that?” With the gentlest touch of his fingertips he tilted her face upward so their eyes met. For a long moment it seemed as though he was going to kiss her. “I knew exactly what you were, the moment you walked into my office. Miss Lannigan was lucky to have you for a friend. Anybody would be lucky . . .” His voice trailed off, then he smiled, hooked his arm back through hers and continued along Charter Street.

  It was late October, the time of year when a cool wind blows and darkness comes early, but Destiny felt the heat of summer rising to her cheeks and she could swear a sunbeam was focused on Charles McCallum’s face. Anybody would be lucky . . . the words kept running through her brain, words spelled out in bright lights like a Times Square sign, a message circling around and around, a message with the tail end missing. “You said,” she started to ask, and then backed off.

  “I
said,” Charles repeated, “you’re doing fine. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  The next day Hoggman attacked Destiny on issues of where she’d gotten the money for her car, red fox coat, big screen television, and any other thing a person could possibly imagine. “I understand that you’ve a brand new velvet sofa,” he said. “Now, just where did the money for that come from?”

  Destiny began to wonder if maybe there was a peeping Tom outside her window, someone taking inventory of everything she owned. “Miss Abigail said it’s better to pay for a thing straight out rather than on the installment plan,” she answered. “So, with that in mind, I figured –” She was on her way to telling the whole story of the conversation when Charles leaned over and whispered in her ear again. She listened to what he had to say, then responded curtly, “The money came from the bank account which was given to me by Abigail Lannigan prior to her death.” From that point on, she gave the same answer to almost any question Hoggman asked.

  “What about the fur coat?” he repeated, and she started rattling off her statement saying that the money was given to her by Abigail Lannigan prior to death. It was like a rubber stamp, smacked down after each question.

  When Hoggman finally got tired of listening to Destiny repeat the words that Charles had whispered into her ear, he switched over to asking if Abigail Lannigan had ever given her a Power-of-Attorney document.

  “Why would she do that?” Destiny asked. “I wasn’t her attorney,”

  Elliott snickered at the answer, but when he caught sight of the mad look on Charles face, he stopped immediately.

  “I know,” Hoggman sneered, “that you are not an attorney, that much is obvious! But did you have legal authorization to make financial decisions and distribute funds from Abigail Lannigan’s account?”

  “Miss Abigail changed her accounts to both our names ‘cause she wanted me to be able to sign checks – how much more authorization did I need?”

  Charles gave her a wink of confidence, and smiled.

  “Yes,” Hoggman shot back, “but, did she do so of her own free will or did you, taking advantage of the fact that she was elderly and in poor health, coerce her?”

  “It was her idea! She asked me to help out because she was getting forgetful.”

  “Was it also her idea for you to help yourself to whatever you wanted?”

  Charles set his hand on Destiny’s arm – his intent being to hold her back from responding to such a statement – but the silkiness of his fingertips sliding around her wrist prompted Destiny to stare at him, dreamy-eyed, like there was not another soul in the room. For a moment he lost track of himself, forgot what he’d intended, forgot, in fact, where they were or what they were there for. Not until she smiled, was he able to shake free, then he snapped, “That’s an improper line of questioning!”

  Hoggman, of course, claimed it was no such thing. He huffed and puffed like a boiler on the verge of exploding, but shied away from belching and eventually pulled back on the manner of questions he was asking.

  His deposition of Destiny went on for another five days, the same questions over and over again – restructured, rephrased, reworked and twisted around to make them sound different, but always circling back to the issue of where the remaining money was. I had to admire the way she handled herself – not once did she tell Hoggman to take a royal crap in his hat, which is something I might have said. Instead, she sat there answering questions she’d already answered five times over, generally smiling like a person who couldn’t think of a better place to be, of course more often than not, that was because Charles was squeezing his knee close to hers, or hooking his foot around her ankle.

  As the days went by, Elliott convinced himself that her smile was a result of having stashed a million dollars in some offshore bank account, and he started to regret that she wasn’t being tried in criminal court.

  When he finished with Destiny, Hoggman hauled Doctor Birnbaum in for interrogation. At first he tried to phrase the questions in such a way that a positive answer could be construed as negative, but Doctor Birnbaum restated almost every question and thereby eliminated any doubt as to the meaning of his answer. “Well then,” Hoggman blustered, twisting the doctor’s words, “you’re saying that Fairchild was capitalizing on Miss Lannigan’s helplessness!”

  “I never said that!” the doctor answered. “I said that Destiny Fairchild was a helpmate to Miss Lannigan. She acted as her companion, friend and caregiver.”

  “Acted! Ah-ha. So she was pretending to play the part!”

  “No,” Doctor Birnbaum answered, by now starting to get a bit agitated. “She was Miss Lannigan’s primary caregiver, and a very good one at that.”

  “Miss Lannigan was quite feeble-minded at that point, wasn’t she?”

  “Abigail? Feeble-minded?” The doctor laughed aloud. “Obviously, you didn’t know Abigail Lannigan. She could keep you on your toes.”

  “But she was forgetful, had memory lapses, right?”

  “No,” the doctor answered shaking his head. “No more than anyone else.”

  “She was taking morphine, wasn’t she?”

  “Only for two weeks prior to her death.”

  “Wouldn’t that impair her judgment? Make a rational decision impossible?”

  “Possibly. But, Abigail –”

  “Possibly? When the woman died, she couldn’t sign her own name, how could she possibly make a decision regarding the disbursement of her estate? Unless,” Hoggman stretched the word out as far as it would go, then he shoved his chair back and stood like the statue of liberty, “unless,” he repeated, “someone coerced her!”

  “You’re pontificating again,” Charles complained, “stick to the questions.”

  “The question as I see it,” Hoggman said, “is – did Destiny Fairchild fabricate this entire story and did she force a dying woman to hand over her life’s savings.”

  “Save it for opening argument,” Charles moaned. “It’s not a valid question.”

  For almost three hours Hoggman badgered Doctor Birnbaum with the same questions over and over again – was Abigail Lannigan incapacitated by drugs, was she incapable of making a decision, was she too weak to resist.

  “Resist what?” the doctor asked. “She was well cared for by Destiny, and, knowing Abigail Lannigan as I did, I’m certain that any decision making she had to do was done long before the morphine became a factor.”

  Finally the doctor informed Mister Hoggman that his questions were ridiculously redundant and then he stood up and marched out of the room.

  When he finished with Doctor Birnbaum, Hoggman called four different people associated with the Middleboro Savings Bank. The first was Martin Kroeger, the branch manager, a man so mild-mannered he’d wait five minutes before answering a question so he wouldn’t be perceived as interrupting. “Isn’t it true that Destiny Fairchild dragged Abigail Lannigan into the bank and forced her to transfer those funds into a joint account?” Hoggman blustered. He asked most of his questions that way – flip-flopping facts to make it sound as if Destiny actually did something underhanded. If the person he was badgering at that particular moment wasn’t quick-witted, they’d end up nodding yes to an answer the exact opposite of what they’d intended to say.

  Martin Kroeger shrugged. “I can’t rightly say,” he stammered. “Those accounts were changed over before I came to Middleboro. If there was wrongdoing I certainly had nothing to do with it.”

  “During the two years you were at the bank, did you ever once know Abigail Lannigan to come in alone and withdraw money from her own account?”

  “Alone? I really can’t say. You’d have to ask Donna Watkins or Sally Klein, they worked the teller stations.”

  “Did Abigail Lannigan appear to be confused, not in control of herself?”

  “Confused?” Martin Kroeger himself looked confused. He twisted his mouth to one side, then removed his glasses and set about polishing the lenses, a task which took the better part of fi
ve minutes. Once he’d set them back onto the bridge of his nose, he answered, “I don’t know.” After that Hoggman dismissed him and went on to the tellers.

  He asked Donna Watkins if Destiny Fairchild appeared suspicious, but she answered no. “Not even,” he raged, “when she wrote one check after another on Miss Lannigan’s account?”

  Donna shook her head. “What was there to be suspicious about?” she asked. “Most of the checks were to the gas company, water company, telephone company, supermarket, ordinary places like that.”

  “But,” Hoggman steamed, “you could see Destiny Fairchild was taking advantage of Miss Lannigan, right?”

  “Advantage? Not at all. Abigail Lannigan seemed to be genuinely fond of that girl; they’d come in laughing and holding to each other like best friends.”

  Hoggman snorted and told Donna Watkins he didn’t have any more questions. He then called on Sally Klein but as it turned out her story was pretty much the same as Donna’s. By the end of the day the hairs on the back of Mister Hoggman’s neck were stiff as porcupine quills.

  Harvey Brown, a man who’d been the branch manager at Middleboro for fifteen years, but had two years ago moved on to the more prestigious York Federal, was the first to be deposed the next morning. Perturbed because he’d had to take time away from his job and spend four dollars for downtown parking, he’d stated, “I doubt that I can be of any help,” before even taking a seat.

  Hoggman ignored the comment and jumped right in. “You were the person responsible for the conversion of Abigail Lannigan’s accounts to joint ownership,” he growled in an accusatory tone. “Were you aware that Destiny Fairchild planned to swindle her out of everything she owned?”