The Wizard's Butler

by Nathan Lowell

  The judge nodded. “I understand there are extenuating circumstances.”

  “Your honor, under the circumstances, we’d like to request a delay until Mr. Shackleford is well enough to attend.”

  Naomi narrowed her eyes at Roger and scowled at Fidelia, but she didn’t speak.

  The judge looked at Julia with a raised eyebrow and turned to Naomi’s side. “Under the circumstances, Mr. Lassiter, I’m inclined to grant the delay.”

  “No,” Naomi said. “Your honor. This is just a delaying tactic.”

  Roger felt his jaw drop and Julia started to respond but the judge held up a hand. “That’s an astonishing remark, Ms. Patching, given that your uncle was just taken out by ambulance by EMTs.”

  Naomi nudged her lawyer.

  “We believe we have sufficient evidence to justify a full hearing, Your Honor,” he said. “Even if Mr. Shackleford were here. If it please the court, we’d like to proceed.”

  The judge made a sour face but looked at Julia. “Ms. Rexwood?”

  Rexwood leaned over to Roger and Fidelia. “Well?”

  Roger pulled his notebook out and held it below the level of the table and wrote a question. “Can we get it dismissed without him here?”

  Rexwood shrugged.

  Fidelia took the pen to scrawl “We can win if it goes to the full hearing.” She nodded at Roger. “Let’s see if we can quash it now and save the trouble.”

  “You sure?” Rexwood asked.

  Roger shared a glance with Fidelia. They both nodded.

  “Very well, Your Honor,” Rexwood said.

  The judge picked up a small gavel, tapped the table, and read the docket number and officialese from the paper in front of her. Duty exhausted, she turned to Naomi’s side of the table. “Mr. Lassiter, your case?”

  “Your honor, we believe Mr. Joseph Perry Shackleford is both physically and mentally unable to care for himself. We ask that his niece and only living relative, Ms. Naomi Patching, be appointed as his guardian.”

  “Evidence, Mr. Lassiter?”

  “He is wheelchair-bound, unable to dress himself, and suffering from dementia, Your Honor.”

  “Evidence is more than words, Mr. Lassiter.” She looked at Naomi. “You’re Ms. Patching?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “You’re his niece?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “You claim to be his only living relative?”

  “Direct relative, yes, Your Honor.”

  “I thought you were his niece, Ms. Patching.”

  “I am, Your Honor.”

  “Then you’re not a direct relative. You’re the child of one of his siblings, aren’t you?”

  “Sorry, Your Honor, I misspoke.”

  The judge nodded but shut Naomi down by turning to Rexwood. “I understand Mr. Shackleford met with a misadventure, but would you care to offer your case, Ms. Rexwood?”

  “He’s hardly wheelchair-bound. He walked into court under his own power today.”

  “Impossible,” Naomi said, slapping the table.

  The judge cast a sour glance at Lassiter, who passed it on to Naomi.

  “Continue, Ms. Rexwood, if you would.” Her gaze never left Naomi.

  “Mr. Shackleford dresses himself every morning. He is sometimes a bit confused as to the day of the week, but I confess to the same weakness, Your Honor. It hardly counts as dementia. Further, I have a report from a geriatrics specialist who confirms that Mr. Shackleford has none of the clinical characteristics of any of the conditions often attributed to dementia.”

  Lassiter frowned at Naomi, who shrugged in return.

  “May I see that report, Ms. Rexwood?”

  “Of course, Your Honor.” She slid a sheet of letterhead from her folder and presented it to the judge.

  The judge read down through it before passing it to Lassiter. “Your comments, Mr. Lassiter?”

  Lassiter looked down through the document but kept a poker face. “This would have come out in discovery, Your Honor.”

  “I would have expected you to have your own, Mr. Lassiter.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Honor. We were unable to compel Mr. Shackleford to attend our physician without a court order.”

  “Tell me, did you ask him, Ms. Patching?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. More than once.”

  “What was his reply, Ms. Patching?”

  “He declined, Your Honor.”

  The judge gave her a wry smile. “Thank you, Ms. Patching.” She looked at Rexwood. “Anything further from you, Ms. Rexwood?”

  “We see no legitimate grounds for granting guardianship to a man who may be old but still manages a multinational portfolio of businesses.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Rexwood.” She looked at Naomi. “Do you have anything to add? Something that might give the court some leverage in this matter?”

  “He’s been wheelchair-bound for months. Every time I visit him, he’s in a wheelchair with his blanket and book. He never knows who I am, calls me by other relatives’ names, and can’t even keep his butler’s name straight.” She took a breath. “Your Honor.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Patching,” she said, glance at her sheet before looking up at Roger. “You’re the butler in question, I take it, Mr. Mulligan.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “What are your qualifications as butler, Mr. Mulligan?”

  “None to speak of, Your Honor. I was hired because I am an ex-Army medic and have EMT training.”

  Her eyebrows rose slightly at that. “A bit of a change, isn’t it, Mr. Mulligan. High octane adventure to greeting visitors?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Tell me what you do, Mr. Mulligan.”

  “My duties involve caring for the house, its occupants, and guests, Your Honor. I have a regular round of duties depending on the time of day and the day of the week.”

  “I see, and have you observed this behavior between Mr. Shackleford and his niece?”

  “I have, Your Honor.”

  The judge blinked. “You have?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  She worked her tongue around in her mouth a little, a smile not quite suppressed. She took a breath and asked, “Can you tell me the first time you observed this behavior, Mr. Mulligan?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. I can.”

  “Please do, Mr. Mulligan.”

  “The first time I met Mr. Shackleford in person, Your Honor. Ms. Patching took me to the library. Mr. Shackleford was in a wheelchair. He called Ms. Patching by some other name that I don’t remember and sent her away for something from the kitchen.”

  The judge blinked. “How long ago was that, Mr. Mulligan?”

  “About five months ago, Your Honor. I have the dates in my phone, if you’d like to know them.”

  “At the moment I’m more interested in what Mr. Shackleford had to say after Ms. Patching left the room.”

  “He asked me why I wanted the job, Your Honor. I told him I needed the money. He asked me a few other questions before Ms. Patching returned.”

  “And on her return?” the judge asked.

  “He cussed her out for bringing the wrong thing from the pantry and sent her back with a stern message to the cook, I think.”

  “You’re not sure about what part?” the judge asked.

  “The stern message to the cook, Your Honor. It was one of his favorite pranks.”

  “Pranks, Mr. Mulligan?”

  “Shackleford House has no cook, Your Honor.”

  “But he sent Ms. Patching to deliver a message, at least on one occasion?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Doesn’t that seem a little off to you, Mr. Mulligan?”

  “It did at first, Your Honor.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “As soon as she was out of the room, we resumed a normal conversation. He gave me an opportunity to ask him questions about the job. Anything, actually.”

  “Did he seem rational to yo
u, Mr. Mulligan.”

  Lassiter leaned forward, “Your honor?”

  She waved him down. “Leading the witness, not qualified to answer. Noted. Overruled. Mr. Mulligan? How did he seem to you?”

  “Like the kind of man I wanted to work for, Your Honor.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him and gave him the stare for a good minute without speaking. “That must have been a pretty big hurdle for a combat vet, Mr. Mulligan.”

  “It was, Your Honor.”

  “So your contention is that Mr. Shackleford deliberately misled Ms. Patching?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. That was only the first time.”

  “You seem pretty sure of the happenings for having it be five months ago, Mr. Mulligan.”

  “Yes, Your Honor. It was an important day for me.”

  “Why is that, Mr. Mulligan?”

  “I don’t sign million-dollar contracts every day, Your Honor.”

  Naomi slid back in her seat while the judge and the two lawyers all turned round eyes on Mulligan.

  “You make a million dollars as a butler?” the judge asked.

  “My monthly stipend is five thousand, but if I keep the job for a year, I receive a million-dollar bonus.”

  The judge looked at Rexwood. “Did you know this?”

  Rexwood shook her head. “No your, honor. First I’ve heard of it.”

  The judge looked at Roger, her head tilted to the side. “Do you realize that this information is potentially prejudicial to your case, Mr. Mulligan?”

  Roger looked at Rexwood who stared back at him, her lips pressed together like she was trying to hold in a scream. “No, Your Honor. It never occurred to me.”

  The judge sighed, blowing it out slowly between pursed lips. “You didn’t think that a million dollars might color your opinion of the man paying for it?”

  Roger frowned. “Mr. Shackleford didn’t hire me, Your Honor.”

  Naomi pushed back a little farther from the table while the judge picked her jaw up.

  “Who hired you, Mr. Mulligan?”

  “Ms. Patching, Your Honor. She and her husband. Five thousand a month and a million-dollar bonus if I kept him alive for a year until they could get him into a home in Colorado.”

  The judge looked at Rexwood. “Did you know any of this?”

  “No, Your Honor. I’ve been working on the basis that the request is baseless on its face.”

  “You can’t prove that,” Naomi said.

  Lassiter turned to her but the judge beat him to it.

  “He doesn’t have to prove anything, Ms. Patching. This is only the preliminary meeting to determine if there is sufficient reason to convene a formal hearing.” She looked down at her notes. “You claim he is wheelchair-bound, Ms. Patching.”

  “He’s always met me in the library in a wheelchair, Your Honor. What was I supposed to think?”

  “Ms. Rexwood claims he walked in under his own power, Ms. Patching. Are you suggesting that she might be mistaken?”

  Naomi looked at Rexwood and then Roger and finally Fidelia. She swallowed hard but stiffened her spine. “It should be easy enough to prove, Your Honor.”

  “I agree, Ms. Patching.” She looked to the uniformed officer at the door. “Officer Quinlan, would you check the security footage for the time that Ms. Rexwood’s party checked in. I want to know if Mr. Shackleford walked through the metal detector.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” He stepped out, and another officer took his place.

  Naomi looked more than a little pale.

  “Ms. Patching, you further claim that Mr. Shackleford cannot dress himself.” The judge looked over the top of her glasses. “Do you have any corroborating testimony? Evidence?”

  Naomi shook her head. “No, Your Honor.”

  “Mr. Mulligan, what other staff does Shackleford House have?”

  “None, Your Honor. I’m the only one.”

  “No valet for Mr. Shackleford?”

  “No, Your Honor. I tend to his clothing but I’ve only helped him out of his clothing once. I helped him get a robe on once when he’d fallen in the bath and needed assistance getting up.”

  “In five months?” the judge asked.

  “Yes, Your Honor. He’s eighty-something but a rather independent individual.”

  “He thinks he’s a wizard,” Naomi said, leaning forward. “Ask him,” She pointed at Roger. “Ask him.”

  The judge’s expression flickered between a frowning annoyance and a bemused smile. “Mr. Mulligan?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. He thinks he’s a wizard.”

  Rexwood looked at him, her eyes round as silver dollars.

  “You don’t think that’s strange, Mr. Mulligan?”

  Roger shrugged. “Not particularly, Your Honor. People think all kinds of things. I knew a soldier in Afghanistan who thought he was immortal. Wounded a dozen times. Never bothered him a bit.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Improvised Explosive Device, Your Honor. Took him, his vehicle, and four of his men.”

  “Do you think Mr. Shackleford is a wizard?” the judge asked.

  “Your Honor,” Rexwood said, holding up a hand.

  “You’re going to prevail, counselor. I want to hear what he has to say.”

  “I believe Mr. Shackleford believes he’s a wizard, yes, Your Honor.”

  “That wasn’t what I asked, Mr. Mulligan.”

  “My mental state isn’t a question today, Your Honor.”

  She leaned over the table and raised her eyebrows. “Do you really want to go there, Mr. Mulligan?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. I believe he’s a wizard.”

  “Do you have any evidence to that effect?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “Then why do you believe it?”

  “As Ms. Rexwood says. He’s old but he’s brilliant. He manages a portfolio that generates so much revenue that he can afford to live alone in a mansion with a real-estate tax bill that’s more than most people’s mortgages. He replaced his fleet of antique autos with a quarter-million-dollar limo and called it petty change. He’s living in the oldest continuously occupied property in North America and has done so for at least two decades with little more help than his butler. That’s pretty wizardly to me, Your Honor.”

  “Being rich doesn’t make him a wizard, Mr. Mulligan.”

  “No, it doesn’t, Your Honor. But you asked what I believe. I can’t speak to what he is, other than a decent man who always treated me well and seems to have more on the ball than half the people I know.”

  The judge leaned back in her chair and nodded. “Well parsed, Mr. Mulligan.”

  “He’s a good man. He’s old. He may not survive into this evening. He’s not senile. He’s not helpless. He’s done a good job making Ms. Patching think so, but it’s not true.”

  The judge nodded and looked at Fidelia. “You are?”

  “Fidelia Necket, Your Honor.”

  “Your relationship to Mr. Shackleford?”

  “Longtime family friend, Your Honor. We share durable powers of attorney.”

  “Why is that, Ms. Necket?”

  “We’re both old, Your Honor. Neither of us has a spouse or significant other who can make the decisions that people sometimes can’t make for themselves. I trust him with mine. He trusts his with me.”

  “How long have you known him?”

  Fidelia shrugged. “I don’t know. Half a century, give or take a decade. He was the older brother I never had growing up. I must have been in my twenties. I’ll be eighty-two this summer.”

  “What do you bring to this meeting?” the judge asked.

  “I thought I was coming to offer moral support,” she said. “And to see Ms. Patching’s face when he walked in on his own.”

  As if on cue, the officer came back into the room and nodded to the judge.

  “Officer Quinlan?” the judge asked.

  “He walked in, Your Honor. By himself.”

  The judge nodded. “W
ith that, my work here is done,” she said. “Request denied. I find there is insufficient evidence to proceed to a formal hearing in the matter of the guardianship of Mr. Joseph Perry Shackleford. Unless one of you has anything further to add?” She stared hard at Lassiter.

  “No, Your Honor,” he said.

  She looked at Rexwood.

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “Good,” she said, gathering her paperwork and thrusting it into a folder. She stood and left out a door in the back before Roger even got halfway to his feet.

  “You’re not getting another penny,” Naomi said, leaning over the table on both hands.

  “So, you’re going to breach your own contract?” Roger asked. “And you’re announcing it in front of—” he looked around. “Four officers of the court?”

  She opened her mouth but Lassiter cut her off. “Before you say another word, leave the room.”

  She glared at him and opened it again, but his lips pressed together and he returned her glare, his eyes wide and threatening mayhem.

  With a hmph she turned on her heel, striding out the door that the handy officer held for her.

  Lassiter sighed and offered a hand to Rexwood. “That went well, Julia. Congratulations.”

  “She’s a live one, Phil.”

  “She’s paid off my house. I can’t complain too much.” He shook his head, gathered his papers and followed her out.

  Rexwood put her folder back in the brief case and ushered them out. “We need to find out how he’s doing and let him know he’s in the clear.”

  * * *

  The three of them rode over in Shackleford’s Mercedes. Roger dropped them at the hospital entrance and found a place to park. He got back in time to catch Fidelia holding up a sheet of paper and her driver’s license. “I’m the one who signed the consent to treat. I have the paper. This is Mr. Shackleford’s lawyer. What else do you want?”

  Roger stood back because it looked like Fidelia might be about to completely lose her head.

  The receptionist looked around and pointed down the hall. “ER check-in is that way, ma’am.”

  “Thank you,” Fidelia said. She turned to Rexwood. “I thought this was supposed to solve these problems.” She shook the page in her hand.

  “She’s just doing her job, Delia. It’s not an everyday occurrence.” She linked arms. “Come on. Let’s see if we can find him.” She gathered Roger with a glance and he followed them down wide hallways, the faint smell of disinfectant fighting with the air freshener.