The Long-Lost Love Letters of Doc Holliday

by David Corbett

  “Ownership is not the issue,” Lisa countered. “All we need to establish is rightful possession. We’ve done that. If the estate has any issues concerning ownership, the proper venue is probate court back in California.”

  For once, Rankin made no effort to contradict her, just sat there with a look on his face like he’d swallowed rancid mayonnaise.

  The judge, sensing the opportunity his silence presented, chose to step in. Leaning forward on her elbows, chafing her palms together thoughtfully, she said, “Mr. Rankin, I have an analogy I think you should consider. I’m sure you’ve heard of Heloise and Abelard.”

  She checked to see if the names registered. He offered only a diffident shrug, as though to say: Maybe I do. So?

  “Twelfth century. Probably the most famous lovers of the pre-modern era. He was her tutor, hired by her uncle, a canon in Paris. When the uncle found out about their liaison—she got pregnant—he had Abelard castrated, and both he and Heloise then entered religious orders. He became a monk and a renowned if unorthodox scholar—he got condemned twice for heresy—while she entered a convent and, in time, became its abbess. Despite the forced separation they corresponded, and their letters are some of the most famous in history. I read them in a class on medievalism as an undergrad at U of A. Following me so far?”

  Rankin blinked, like the kid in class unsure he’s actually been called upon. Beside him, Littmann sat impassively.

  “For the most part, those letters are reasonably staid and proper, especially the ones from Abelard, who was a bit of a whiny stick-in-the-mud, to be blunt. Heloise, on the other hand, knew her own mind, like when she told Abelard she’d rather be his whore than an empress. Still with me?”

  “Your Honor, I—”

  “Around 1980, over one hundred previously unknown letters were found—anonymous, and recopied by a scribe three centuries after Heloise and Abelard died—but at least two well-known, reputable scholars believe they’re legitimate. One published his findings in a book titled The Lost Love Letters of Heloise and Abelard.”

  Lisa suppressed a smile. Through some strange grace or pure dumb luck she’d drawn the perfect judge.

  “Where the previously known letters are fascinating here and there, the newly discovered ones are, well, just plain juicy—on both their parts. Honest to God love letters, unguarded—”

  “Your Honor,” Rankin interjected, “I’m not sure I see—”

  “Now, as you can imagine, not everyone agrees these more recently discovered letters are genuine. The tone is so different from the others it’s hard to tell. And yet they clearly have immeasurable value—for historians, if no one else. Plus a novelist has taken a whack at the story with these new letters in hand, a filmmaker’s written an updated biography—catch my drift? Who are Doc and Mattie Holliday if not the Old West’s Abelard and Heloise? Now, given that parallel, tell me again why you think the letters in your client’s possession are valueless. In particular, why go to the trouble of agreeing to consider their purchase if—”

  “I can answer that, Your Honor, if I may.”

  It was Littmann, not Rankin. Apparently, he’d decided his lawyer’s esteem in the judge’s eyes had plummeted enough. He rose from his chair with senatorial self-assurance, buttoning his suit jacket, a whistle-stop smile.

  The judge checked her copy of the moving papers. “Mr. Littmann?”

  “Judge Littmann,” he said. Asserting rank. “Retired.”

  With a wary glance, she replied, “All right.”

  “You see, when I was contacted by Ms. Balamaro concerning the letters, she made no mention whatsoever of this Tuck Mercer’s involvement. That alone should arouse the court’s suspicions.”

  He punctuated this with a dismissive wave of his hand in Lisa’s direction, his expression agreeably venomous.

  “I thought the letters would make an interesting gift for my wife. The story behind the actual correspondence is, admittedly, quite romantic. And though I knew the letters on offer were unlikely to be the real deal—I mean, let’s be adults about this—there were at least two possibilities that made a potential purchase still worth considering.”

  He clasped his hands behind his back, rocking a little back and forth, as he related the two possible theories Rankin had outlined during their meeting at the Whetstone Inn: that Doc’s cousin’s wife, Mary Cowperthwaite Fulton Holliday, had possibly forged the letters with her son-in-law, the Swedish novelist Carl Olson; or that Margaret Mitchell, author of Gone With the Wind, had mocked them up with her copy editor husband when they were desperate for money.

  When he was finished, Lisa rose. “Your Honor, the defendant has just admitted the letters have potential real value, not just intrinsic commercial value, even if forged.”

  “I’m admitting no such thing. I’m saying that’s why I agreed to meet.”

  “You agreed to meet,” the judge interjected, “in order to obtain something you considered worthy of interest. And money. Yes?”

  “Your Honor, as I already stated, Ms. Balamaro made no mention of the involvement of this man, Tuck Mercer, a convicted felon and forger. We only learned this after the meeting at the Whetstone Inn, which—contrary to plaintiff’s absurd accusations—went quite smoothly and peaceably. As Mr. Rankin noted, we asked for temporary possession of the letters for the sake of verification of their authenticity. Ms. Balamaro gladly agreed.”

  “That’s a bald-faced lie,” Lisa said. “It doesn’t even make sense. Why would I—”

  He raised his palm to her, as though walling her off. “It was only after taking possession of the letters, Your Honor, that we had a chance to perform our due diligence. Better late than never, as it turns out. We discovered Ms. Balamaro represented Mr. Mercer in several matters over the past few years, and could only conclude we were being played for fools.”

  “Except we’re not,” Rankin added. “Fools, I mean. And don’t intend to be treated like we are.”

  Lisa stood there slack-jawed, amazed and yet also impressed at the sheer audacity. Behind her, murmurs and whispers purred among the spectators, prompting the handsome CSO once again to rise from his stool in the corner, step forward and raise a cautioning hand, accompanied by a government-issue stare.

  The courtroom fell silent once more.

  “Your Honor,” Lisa said. “Even if all we’ve just heard from Judge Littmann is true—and I think I’ve made it clear, we contend it is not—that doesn’t make it relevant.” She held out her hands, palms facing each other, only an inch apart. “Again, the issue here is quite narrow. We want the letters placed in escrow so they’re protected. Simple. Straightforward.”

  “But unfortunately,” Littmann said, “highly unlikely.”

  This got everyone’s attention. Even Rankin looked a little at a loss. The whispers and murmurs returned, louder this time, prompting the judge to call out from the bench, “I will clear this courtroom if I have to.” Once the hubbub subsided, she returned her focus to Littmann. “You’d better explain that to me.”

  “It’s simple, Your Honor. Straightforward. To borrow a phrase.” He smiled with galling nonchalance. “I brought the letters home, showed them to my wife. Upon learning of Tuck Mercer’s involvement in this, however, she felt an understandable…revulsion.”

  “Go on.”

  “When my wife was a teenager, Mr. Mercer stalked her relentlessly. She was a lovely girl from a prosperous family. He was an aimless rodeo mutt. She tried to be polite but he simply refused to get the message. One night he was following her in his pickup, basically chasing her down this empty road. Trying to escape, she took a turn too fast and—” He paused, the entire courtroom in his thrall. “The accident sent her to the hospital for nearly a month, and permanently impaired her eyesight. Even with that, her family had to go to great lengths thereafter to keep Tuck Mercer away from their daughter.”

  “When, exactly, do you intend to get to your point, Judge Littmann?”

  “I wish I could describe for yo
u accurately the look on my wife’s face when she learned that somehow this man had weaseled his way back into her life. Hoping to get one more crack at her, I suppose. Or her money. She did what any one of us here in this courtroom would do.”

  “Are you saying—”

  “The letters have been destroyed, Your Honor.”

  Audible moans and gasps erupted throughout the courtroom. Lisa sat stunned.

  From the bench, the judge said, “I issued a Temporary Restraining Order. You violated it?”

  “Not at all. That order didn’t reach us till late yesterday morning. The letters were long gone by then. It happened the night before. In the fire pit behind our house.”

  Good God, Lisa thought, wondering how she was going to explain this to Rayella.

  The judge said, “And you sat there this whole time, knowing the letters no longer even existed?”

  “Your Honor, I wasn’t hiding anything. And please don’t blame Mr. Rankin, I haven’t had time to tell him this yet. We’ve all been rather preoccupied. Plaintiff asserted several other causes of action, rather gaudy ones to be blunt, that we’ve all been scrambling to address. I at no time disrespected you or this court.” An innocent shrug. “As for the letters, I frankly fail to see the problem. People burn trash every day.”

  CHAPTER 40

  A quick rapping knock at the door—Tuck and Meredith both glanced up, seated side by side on the bed, hands clasped. Rags stood in the doorway, Rayella behind him.

  “What seems to be taking so long?”

  Tuck unlocked his fingers, rose to his feet. “We were just—”

  “Holding up the show?” Rayella pushed past Rags. “Little bump-bump kiss-kiss?”

  “We should’ve been gone by now.” Rags followed her in, hands restless at his sides, voice tight. “More time, more danger. For everybody.”

  “I understand,” Tuck said.

  “That so?” Rayella strode up like she wanted to knee him. “You’re sure as hell not acting like it.”

  “I suppose I’m the problem,” Meredith said, waving from the bed like it was a parade float. “I just wanted a little visit. Old times.”

  “Yeah?” That quick, Rayella was done with Tuck. “Well, there’s time for that after we leave, lady. You two lovebirds can go at it all you want once we’re gone. Now open that goddamn safe, get out those letters. My letters.”

  Tuck said, “Look, there’s no need to—”

  A rough hand gripped his arm and spun him around. Rags stepped in close. “I don’t know what you’re up to, cowboy, but it’s time you came clean.”

  From Tuck’s pocket, a sudden whirring buzz—his cell. He lifted one hand, like a flag of ceasefire, while the other reached slowly for the phone.

  Tuck read the display. “It’s Lisa.” He looked face to face to confirm it was okay to answer.

  He thumbed speakerphone. “Hey. What’s up?”

  “Where are you?” The words were burred with static.

  “Somewhere between Douglas and Tucson. Thereabouts.”

  A pause, as though she was trying to make sense of that. “I’ve been calling, texting—”

  “Yeah, I know. Finally got service. Lotta dead zones out this way. How’d it go in court?” A flurry of white noise, like an active hive.

  “…not going to believe this. Littmann says his wife destroyed the letters.”

  Stunned glances caromed around the bedroom, eventually landing as one on Meredith. Wide-eyed, she shook her head no, pointing like a silent movie actress toward her closet, mouthing the words: In the safe.

  Tuck returned his attention to the phone. “Littmann said that?”

  “You should’ve seen the judge’s face. Like he’d just set fire to her favorite aunt.”

  “He actually testified that—”

  “I need to speak with Rayella, she’s not picking up her phone, either. From here on out this is about money, nothing else, which to be honest—”

  “Just to be perfectly clear,” Tuck said. “Littmann said he ash-canned the letters.”

  Again, Meredith shook her head no, even more demonstrably than before.

  “Not him, his wife. Is Rayella there?”

  Tuck clicked through the options, sensing an unforeseen opportunity. A chance at justice.

  Everyone stared.

  “Gimme a couple minutes. I’ll make sure she hits you back.”

  ***

  Sitting with Rankin in the conference room provided by the court for defense counsel, Littmann played back the message a second time, trying to pick out the garbled words from the background hiss. Finally, he gave up and hit the callback button. Ray Billingham, a part-time member of his security team, picked up on the second ring.

  “Judge Littmann?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “That’s the problem, judge. I’m not real sure.”

  “Explain.”

  “I called a little earlier, to get in touch with Seth, talk to him about trading shifts, sister-in- law’s wedding.”

  “The point, Ray.”

  “Somebody’d just shown up at the door. At the house, I mean. Seth seemed a little combobulated. I know, he’s always that way, but this seemed, I dunno, different. He signed off quick, said he’d call me back. But he didn’t. Hasn’t. Not answering his phone now, neither. Make matters worse, can’t rustle up no one else on the dee-tail. No one’s picking up at the ranch, not Luke, not Sneezy, not Blaine. Tried to reach Logan then realized he’s there with you. So…”

  His voice trailed away, as though to invite Littmann to offer a suggestion, figure the thing out. Littmann was trying to do just that—mind darkening with implications, grip tightening on the phone.

  “Judge? Tell me what you want me to do.”

  ***

  Back inside the courtroom, Lisa sat at the plaintiff’s table, staring at her phone, still trying to digest what she’d just heard. From Rayella. And Tuck. About their sneaky little surprise. Make that major sneaky. And big surprise. Behind her, the courtroom doors banged open. Littmann and his entourage strode forward—glowering expressions, menacing gait, worse than before.

  Littmann was the first to reach her. “What the hell have you done?”

  Lisa swallowed nervously. “I’m not—”

  “Don’t play coy with me.” His finger in her face, eyes veined with fury. “So help me God, you think this has been rough so far? Get ready, you conniving little cunt. You’re getting disbarred. For starters. After that, I’ll have you flayed and quartered. Put the video up on YouTube for your daddy to—”

  “Counselors?”

  It was the ever-reliable CSO, gorgeous as ever. More so. To the rescue. He approached with a disarmingly offhand composure, though his eyes never strayed from the quartet of men.

  “Problem here?”

  Littmann seethed. Rankin said, “We’re not allowed to talk?”

  The CSO chuckled. “Oh, you guys.” His glance trailed down to Lisa in her chair. “How about you—everything good?”

  She smiled with relief, offered a peace sign. “Groovy like a movie.”

  “Judge is ready to see you in chambers.”

  Rankin’s head jerked back and forth. “What’s going on?”

  “Don’t worry. You’re all invited.” The CSO turned his stare toward the pair of hulking bodyguards and raised a naysaying hand. “Check that. Not you two.”

  ***

  The judge’s chambers possessed the usual somber elegance—plump leather chairs, wall-length bookshelves packed with texts, a massive desk of polished mahogany stacked with tidy files.

  The sole oddity: in the corner, an eye-grabbing display of Hopi ceremonial masks.

  One resembled a tasseled tin bucket with slits for eyes, like a Teutonic helmet that had sprouted fronds. Another suggested a tiny-headed bird with a pointed, saber-like beak and long stringy locks made of tangled wire. Most impressive of all, a feather-headed wolf-man with an intricately beaded face, dark gray hawk wings for ear
s, a coiled gold snake for a mouth.

  Judge Numkena sat in her swivel chair, spoon in one hand, carton of yogurt in the other. She wore a pleated, cream-colored, bishop-sleeved blouse and a charcoal herringbone skirt. Her robe hung empty on a hook near the door.

  As though to signal where she stood, a copy of Joseph Sax’s Playing Darts with a Rembrandt sat prominently on her desk, turned so her visitors could read the title on the cover. Lisa knew the book well—it argued against an individual’s right to destroy artifacts of great cultural significance—like letters written by one of the most notorious figures of the Old West.

  “I understand,” the judge said, glancing briefly at Lisa before returning her attention to the carton, probing it with her spoon, “that you have some new revelation?”

  Lisa sat down in one of the voluptuous wingback chairs, the softness of the leather like a giant, welcoming glove. It helped, just a little, with her nausea.

  “I just learned of this a few minutes ago. I’m still a little floored, to be honest, for a number of reasons. Anyway, a witness wishes to come forward.”

  “What is this?” Rankin had yet to take a seat, nor had Littmann, as though they weren’t yet certain they intended to stay. “If this is testimony or evidence, we want it on the record.”

  “We shall see,” the judge said. “But I believe that Ms. Balamaro is trying to do you a favor. Why not take a seat, gentlemen? Take a load off, as they say.” She waited for the men to obey, then: “All right, Ms. Balamaro. Your show.”

  Lisa hit the speed-dial button on her phone. “I’m going to use FaceTime,” she said, setting the phone on the judge’s desk, perching it up against Playing Darts with a Rembrandt. “Like you did, Judge Littmann, remember? At the hotel. When you wanted to show me how you’d taken care of my client.”

  Rankin shot out of his chair. “We object. This is—”