“Objection!” Charles said. “Your Honor, he’s badgering the witness, pounding her with suppositions and not allowing time for an answer.”
“Sustained,” the judge said and gave Hoggman a hard glare.
“Sorry, Your Honor,” Hoggman mumbled and then went back to his questioning. After almost an hour of picking at every aspect of our relationship, he asked, “Miss Fairchild, before you sought out Abigail Lannigan you knew that she had come into a sizeable inheritance, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“There is reason to believe you did. In fact, Elliott Emerson believes that you not only knew about the money, but worked to turn Miss Lannigan against him so that you alone would inherit the entire estate.”
“That’s not true, I never –”
“After Miss Lannigan’s demise, did you try to sell the house or probate the handwritten will to claim your inheritance?”
“No.”
“Of course you didn’t, because you knew that so-called will would never hold up in court! In fact this entire story is nothing but a giant fabrication, isn’t it?” Hoggman turned to the jury and gave the smug grin of a man who had proven his point. Herman Cohen, the self-appointed foreman nodded as did two other men sitting in the front row.
“That’s not why,” Destiny answered tearfully, “keeping Miss Abigail alive was more important to me than having her money. If I cashed in the accounts and sold her house, she’d be gone from my life. So, I kept the house and made believe she was asleep in the bedroom.” She twisted the left side of her mouth into a sad sort of half-smile, “Sometimes I’d forget it was just pretend and make two pork chops for supper or hesitate to turn on the television set because it might wake her.”
“Oh, please!” Hoggman sneered with an air of disbelief, but by then, Eleanor Farrell and Francine Walker – a woman with two kids and a deadbeat husband at home – already had tears rolling down their cheeks.
Seeing the jury’s sympathy slide over to Destiny, Hoggman moved on to questions about the money and where exactly the million dollars had gone to. After she’d said a number of times that she knew nothing of the money, had never seen it, nor had ever known Abigail Lannigan to have it, Hoggman exclaimed, “Are you asking this jury to believe all that money just disappeared, vanished into thin air?”
“Objection!” Charles said but right away Hoggman jumped in, claiming that Destiny was a hostile witness and he had the right to treat her as such.
“I’m not the least bit hostile!” she snapped back at him.
“Enough!” Judge Kensington said and rapped his gavel. “The objection is sustained, now move on Mister Hoggman.”
“You claim to know nothing of the money, but since Miss Lannigan’s death, you’ve purchased a new car, new furniture, extensive amounts of clothing, where did the money for those things come from?”
“Out of Miss Abigail’s account, but she’d said that money was mine.”
“Oh really? Well, if you believed that money to be rightfully yours, then why didn’t you at least present the will for probate so a court could verify it?”
Destiny shrugged.
“You have no answer, do you? That’s because you knew all along that the money should have gone to Elliott Emerson, a true Lannigan heir!” When Hoggman saw six nodding heads in the jury box, he said he had no further questions for the witness and court was adjourned for the day.
The next day started with a lineup of witnesses testifying as to the nature of Destiny and my relationship. Dear old Doctor Birnbaum was first and he told how she was right there by my side every time he saw me. “I’ve never known a more dedicated caretaker,” he told Charles. Then when Hoggman tried to twist those words around and make it seem that Destiny was a person who did little more than drive me to and from his office, Doctor Birnbaum told how she’d cried like a broken-hearted baby the day we found out I had pancreatic cancer.
They say if you live long enough, you’ll have seen it all, but I was pretty amazed when the four Bountiful Basket clerks, three Middleboro Savings Bank tellers and Harvey Brown, the Branch Manager I used to deal with, all showed up to tell the truth of how things were. Every one of them put their hand on the bible and swore to God that I treated Destiny like she was my own child and that she took care of me as kindly as any daughter would have. When they finished up, Scott Bartell, the lawyer who’d helped me settle up my brother’s estate told exactly how much I’d gotten. “One-hundred and sixty-seven thousand dollars,” he said. Of course, he never knew about the bonds Will had hidden in Papa’s bible – thank heaven for that, I thought.
At one o’clock Judge Kensington called for a lunch recess.
Destiny was trying to force down a chicken sandwich when Charles told her he thought Herman Cohen and the two men sitting alongside of him were sympathetic toward Elliott. “I’m pretty sure we’ve got five jurors on our side,” he said, “but the other four, I’m not sure about. We could be looking at an even split, which would mean a mistrial.”
“Then what?”
“We do it all over again.”
“Oh no,” Destiny moaned.
“There’s one other alternative – a strategy that can probably prevent Elliott Emerson from getting the money, but it doesn’t do anything to help your case.”
“Do it,” she answered, willfully. “Do whatever you can to keep Elliott from getting his hands on Miss Abigail’s money.”
At two-fifteen when the court reassembled, Charles said he would like to recall Elliott Emerson to the stand for additional cross. The bailiff reminded Elliott that he was still under oath, then Charles started his questioning.
“You’ve petitioned the court to name you as beneficiary to Abigail Anne Lannigan’s estate based upon the fact that you are a direct descendent of her father, William Lannigan Senior, is that true?”
“Yes,” Elliott answered apprehensively.
“The great grandson of William Lannigan?”
“Yes.”
“If being a direct descendent gives you a legal right to the estate, then may I assume that other relatives – children, grandchildren, great grandchildren would have the same right?”
“Do you see any other relatives in this courtroom?” Elliott answered angrily. “There’s only me. I’m the one who ought to get the Lannigan money.”
“You’ve made certain that there are no other relatives in this courtroom,” Charles said, “but there are other Lannigans. Your sister, Felicia, for example; fourteen first cousins who went to high school with you – including yourself, there are one-hundred and forty-eight Lannigan descendents alive today.”
“I object!” Hoggman shouted.
“To what?” Charles asked, “The fact that William was such a prolific man?”
Everyone in the jury box, including Herman Cohen chuckled.
Judge Kensington banged down his gavel. “Approach the bench,” he said. “Now just what is it, that you’re objecting to?” he asked Hoggman.
“This wasn’t mentioned in discovery.”
“He’s your client,” the judge growled, “it’s up to you to find out the facts. Objection overruled.”
“Back to the Lannigan descendents,” Charles said, “there are forty-six grandchildren, eighty-four great grandchildren, one of whom is Felicia, your sister. There are also seventeen cousins. Are you planning to share the Lannigan estate proportionately with all of them?”
“They don’t deserve to get anything,” Elliott said, “they were never close with Abigail Lannigan.”
“Judging by the testimony given here,” Charles replied, “neither were you.” He then turned to the judge and said, “The defense rests, your Honor.”
Judge Kensington rapped his gavel, “The court will hear final summations at nine-thirty tomorrow and I would strongly recommend that both sides limit themselves to forty-five minutes.”
Hoggman began his summation bellowing like a cow in labor; he claimed the facts had proven beyond a doubt that Elliott
Emerson, the great grandson of William John Lannigan, was indeed the rightful heir to Abigail Anne Lannigan’s estate. He made sweeping gestures with first one arm then the other as he ticked off item by item every fragment of testimony that was marginally favorable to Elliott. He focused on discrediting Destiny and never once mentioned that there were one-hundred and forty-seven other Lannigan descendents. “The scrap of paper which the defense would have you believe to be Abigail Lannigan’s will is laughable!” he said. “Why, the defendant herself could have scribbled those lines in an attempt to give credence to the preposterous claim of being the sole beneficiary. Then, there is the issue of the missing money – one million dollars – which she claims to know nothing of. I don’t for one minute believe that such a huge amount of money just vanished into thin air. Nor do I believe that Abigail Anne Lannigan intended that scrap of paper to be her last will and testament! The truth of this matter is that Abigail Lannigan died intestate, and without the existence of a duly executed will, therefore, her estate by law belongs to surviving relatives.”
After the summation had rambled on for close to an hour, Judge Kensington coughed loudly and pointed a finger at his watch. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Hoggman quickly concluded, “I trust that you will see through Destiny Fairchild’s scam and award Elliott Emerson, the estate to which he is legally entitled.”
After a fifteen minute recess, Charles started his summation in a voice which, in comparison to Hoggman, seemed outright friendly. He thanked the jurors for their time and attention, then promised to keep his summation short which brought smiles from several members of the jury and a favorable nod from Judge Kensington. “We’ve all had special relationships in our life,” he said, “relationships that are not according to bloodline, but born of the heart. Such was the type of relationship that existed between Abigail Lannigan and Destiny Fairchild. This is a fact attested to by the people who saw them together day after day – grocery clerks, tellers, and Miss Lannigan’s own doctor. The two women loved each other like mother and daughter, not because of a predestined family relationship, but because of a special bond that grew to be stronger than an umbilical cord. On her deathbed, Abigail Lannigan scribbled out what she intended to be her last will and testament; now Miss Fairchild could have rushed out for a notary to witness the document and insure that it would hold up in court – but she didn’t. She chose to stay by Miss Lannigan’s bedside and take care of her. That’s not the behavior of someone who’s eager for the money – that’s the behavior of a woman who is distraught by the impending death of her closest friend.”
Charles lowered his voice and took on a hard-edged tenor. “On the other hand,” he said, “Elliott Emerson had no interest whatsoever in Abigail Lannigan. His only interest was in her money. He never once went to see his aunt without asking for money. In fact, his visits were so infrequent that he didn’t learn about her death until almost eight months after it happened. Abigail Lannigan disliked Elliott Emerson because she saw him for what he was – a man with a greed for money. Greed, so overwhelming that he covered over the existence of one-hundred and forty-seven other Lannigan descendants, one of whom is his own sister. Mister Hoggman would have you believe that Miss Fairchild is a person looking to benefit from the death of her friend; in fact, he has insinuated that she somehow managed to hide away one million dollars. Yet, we’ve heard testimony stating that the actual amount of the estate Abigail Lannigan received was nowhere near such an amount. If that money was never in Abigail Lannigan’s possession, it stands to reason that Miss Fairchild could not have taken it.”
Charles hesitated for a moment, letting the thought settle in with the jurors, then he continued. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he said, “I ask you to do as Abigail Lannigan would have wanted – award her friend and companion, Destiny Fairchild, the estate as was intended. Please do not allow this plaintiff to profit by his greed. His right to the Lannigan estate is no greater than the one-hundred and forty-seven other descendants, none of whom are seen here today. You cannot, in good conscience, award Elliott Emerson the Lannigan estate, without decreeing that every one of the other descendants is likewise entitled to a share. ”
Judge Kensington then told the jurors that they were to consider the facts in evidence and render a decision for either the plaintiff or the defendant. “You may,” the judge said, “make monetary recommendations for distribution of the estate assets, in total or in part, and you may also make a recommendation for any restitution you deem appropriate.”
How ironic, I thought, twelve people who didn’t know a thing about me, were going to decide whether or not Destiny could keep the money I’d given her. I could tell that three or four women on the jury would say right off that she ought to have every last cent, but I was also pretty sure Herman Cohen would argue the point. Now that Destiny was engaged to Charles, I wasn’t worried about her anymore, so when the two of them left for lunch, I stayed behind and listened to the jury argue about who ought to get what.
Herman Cohen claimed that since he was the foreman, he should be first to state his opinion. “I say Mister Emerson should get the whole ball of wax,” he told everyone emphatically. “He’s a blood relative and that’s good enough for me.”
“Well it’s not good enough for me,” Eleanor said, and several others echoed the same sentiment. They went round and round for a good twenty minutes, nobody agreeing on anything, then the blond woman in the polka dot blouse spoke. “That Emerson fella is a phony,” she said. “I’ll bet my dog’s ass there ain’t a word of truth in what he’s said.”
“Oh yeah? Herman Cohen grumbled, “And, you’re an expert?”
“Yeah, I’m an expert!” Blondie snapped back. “I been tending bar for fifteen years and can spot a phony before they stick a foot through the door.”
“He has got shifty eyes,” one of the men conceded.
“He’s also got a birth certificate that proves he’s a Lannigan!” another argued.
“So what!” Eleanor said. “It proves he’s a Lannigan, but it doesn’t prove that he’s entitled to one red cent of the money.” Three women, including Blondie, agreed with Eleanor, then she continued on. “I think we ought to do what the old lady wanted, and give everything to the Fairchild girl.”
“I agree,” the housewife said. “A lot of people swore that she and the woman were real close, and Destiny Fairchild acts like a person telling the truth.”
“Acts?” Cohen growled. “We’re not here to judge her acting ability; we got a responsibility to see justice is done. That thing, she’s been waving around ain’t nothing but a scribbled on piece of paper, it sure ain’t no will. Emerson’s lawyer told us when a person dies with no will, the estate is supposed to go to the next of kin.”
“Automatically!” a plumber, who up until now hadn’t said a word, added.
“He ain’t the only kin,” Blondie argued. “Apparently, there’s one-hundred and forty-seven other Lannigans. Like her lawyer said, if this guy gets the estate, every one of them relatives ought to get their part.”
“Okay,” Cohen said begrudgingly, “we make the girl pay back everything she’s spent, then we’ll give the whole ball of wax to all of the Lannigans and let them divvy it up. How’s that sound?”
“Absolutely not!” Eleanor snapped. “I’ll not go along with making that girl give back one nickel!”
“Me neither,” Blondie said.
“Nor will I,” a woman who’d been filing her fingernail echoed.
“We ought to give Destiny Fairchild everything,” the housewife repeated. “That’s what the old woman wanted and that’s what we ought to do.”
“The law says if there’s no will –”
“Law-schmaw,” Blondie sneered. “If there wasn’t no question about what ought to be, then there wouldn’t have been no trial!”
They argued it back and forth for another two hours, and then sick of hearing what one side or the other thought, they worked out a compromise and sen
t word to Judge Kensington that they were ready with a verdict. I have to say, I really did admire the way Eleanor stood up for things, in fact the way several of those women argued and argued for what they thought was right. I didn’t much agree with their final decision, but I suppose under the circumstances, it was the best they could do.
“Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury,” Judge Kensington said, “have you reached a verdict?”
“We have, Your Honor,” Herman Cohen answered. “Assuming that this petition has been filed on behalf of all Lannigan descendents, we find for the plaintiff, and award the remaining assets in Abigail Lannigan’s estate to be divided proportionally among the one-hundred and forty-eight eligible relatives. We also find that the defendant has acted in good conscience, and therefore, no restitution of assets is warranted.”
Destiny asked Charles, “Does this mean Elliott will get her house?”
“Not him,” Charles answered. “The estate. The house will be sold, and the money in the estate divided among all one hundred and forty-eight Lannigans. The good news is that you don’t have to make restitution for anything, and you’re rid of Elliott.”
She looked at him teary-eyed, “Thanks,” she said, “for everything.” As they walked down the courthouse steps, Destiny said, partly to Charles and I believe partly to me, “I know Miss Abigail’s happy that Elliott didn’t get everything.”
“She’ll be very happy,” Charles replied, “because by time they probate those holdings and pay out lawyer’s fees, he’ll probably get less than one thousand dollars.”
“Honestly?” Destiny squealed.
“Honestly,” Charles repeated, then he wrapped his arm around her shoulder.
Lord Almighty, I thought, I certainly do like this young man!
The Twelfth Child Page 27
