The Will Page 6

  Roger glared, obviously not accustomed to open opposition. “You’re still pissed off because I whipped your ass in wrestling,” he said.

  Henry shook his head. He remembered Crandall’s hostility on the mats, his willingness to hit opponents unfairly, to do anything to get the other player on his back. “We’re not in that world anymore, Roger. Think of this as free legal advice. Or if you don’t want my advice, be practical for your own benefit. Either way, it’s not in your interest to create a serious legal problem with the executor of your father’s estate.”

  Roger eyed him suspiciously, but Henry could feel him retreating. “You got damn touchy in Chicago,” Roger said.

  “Not touchy, Roger. But different.”

  Roger glared, saying nothing. Henry decided not to push it; it wasn’t necessary to humiliate Roger, forcing an assent from his lips. It would be what it would be. If Roger could control himself, fine; if not, Henry would simply get on a plane and go back to Chicago. “Good,” he said evenly. “If that’s clear, then maybe we can get something done before we all get some rest, which I think everybody needs.” Roger gave Henry an ugly look but sat obediently. “There are some things you need to understand about probate generally. First, your mother has some rights by law. The family home, that kind of thing. That appears to have been accomplished. You, as a child of a living spouse, aren’t automatically entitled to anything, and therefore your father can more or less do what he wants as far as you and Sarah are concerned.”

  Roger cursed and said, “So you’re actually saying this thing can be legal.”

  “Yes, it can. Unless, of course . . .” Henry trailed off, and Roger interrupted him eagerly.

  “What is it?” Roger demanded. “You know something.”

  Henry sighed; the funeral already seemed like ages ago. “Look, Roger, the courts tend to take last wishes pretty seriously, but I’m not going to say people don’t fight over estates. When they do it’s invariably ugly. Things tend to boil down to two main arguments. Frankly, I can’t believe I’m talking about this. It’s the last thing I thought I’d be doing tonight.”

  “This whole thing ain’t what I thought it would be.”

  “All right, Roger. I said there were two arguments. The first is that the will can be held invalid if your father was acting under duress. Compelled, in other words.”

  “You mean somebody forcin’ him to do what he didn’t want to do.”

  “Exactly. But the first question the judge is going to ask is who benefits from that duress. In this case that somebody would be Raymond Boyd, and nobody can seriously believe that he had the power to pressure your father into doing a thing. Your father was the most powerful man in this county, and Boyd is, well, the Birdman. You see my point.”

  Roger glared. “What’s the other argument?”

  “Uglier. The court can throw out a will if the deceased wasn’t fully in command of his faculties when he wrote it. I mean insane, Roger.”

  Roger slammed his fist down on the table. “How else can you explain cuttin’ your own flesh and blood out of a will? He must have been insane, out of his mind! You’ve got to do something, damn it. You got to talk to somebody and tell them that’s what happened!”

  “I take it you don’t see the irony of this line of reasoning.”

  Roger stared. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s Boyd who’s insane, Roger. Not your father.”

  Roger was stopped, but only for a moment. “What do you know about it?” he said at last. “You ain’t seen my father in years.”

  “That’s true,” Henry said, “but I do know the man who drafted this will. I know he would never have had a part in it if Tyler hadn’t been completely lucid when it was written.”

  Roger turned scarlet. “Yeah, I forgot that part,” he said icily. “Your father did write up this piece of garbage. I’m sure he enjoyed that, seeing me around town, knowin’ his little secret and not saying a thing. He knew the whole time. He spoke to me on the street, for God’s sake.”

  “Your father was free to do anything he wanted with his money, and he simply exercised that option.”

  “I watch enough TV to know that I can contest this thing. And if that’s what I want to do it ain’t nobody’s business but mine. And you’re supposed to be helpin’ me.”

  Henry sighed, worn down by Roger’s open greed. It wasn’t that there wasn’t a genuine loss to be felt over the money; it was the simple hatred and lack of sorrow over anything else that Henry found so fatiguing. “You want my help?” he said. “All right, Roger. It’s free legal advice day. So I’m going to lay this out for you very clearly so you know what the hell you’re talking about.” He picked up the papers. “Contesting this will on an insanity basis is going to involve public legal proceedings. Very public, in this case. Evidence would have to be introduced to prove that your father wasn’t in control of himself at the time the will was written. Do you understand what that would mean?”

  “Explain it.”

  “You’d have to talk to people in town to find evidence of your father’s declining mental condition. Your testimony alone wouldn’t be sufficient, for obvious reasons. You have far too much to gain. Witnesses would have to be called, people deposed. You’d have to find unsound business decisions, incoherent conversations. The entire town would become aware of what you were trying to do and how you were doing it. What you’re talking about is humiliating your family in a public forum, and if by some chance you’re successful, you will have destroyed the memory of your father. And all that’s if it was true that your father was insane, which I don’t believe for one second, and neither does anybody else in this town. To go through all that and lose would be a catastrophe.”

  “If you want to avoid all that, then give me an alternative.”

  “It’s not me who should want to avoid it, Roger,” Henry said flatly. “But there’s something else.” He stared down at the desk, wishing there were a way around what he had to say. “It’s something you’re going to find particularly unpleasant.” Roger grunted something unintelligible, and Henry continued: “Do you remember asking me about what in terrorem meant?” Henry asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m sorry about this, Roger.”

  Roger got up and walked to the bar. He poured himself a tumbler of scotch, dispensing with the ice. He walked back to his chair and fell heavily into it. “Go on.”

  Henry spoke with studied calmness. “In terrorem is a very powerful legal concept. It has only one purpose, and that is to be a kind of lock on the will.” Roger stared back at him blankly. “I’ll give you this in plain English, Roger. The in terrorem clause provides that if anyone tries to contest the will—for any reason—they are completely excluded from the estate. Automatically and permanently. What I’m saying, Roger, is that if you contest this will you can never receive a penny from it for as long as you live. What you got may not seem like much, but you would be risking every cent of it to file against the will. But that’s not the worst of it.”

  For the first time, Roger seemed to diminish. “What kind of law is that?” he asked. “How can there be such a law?”

  “It doesn’t come around much, obviously. Most family dynamics aren’t as”—he sought for the word—“tortured as this,” he said at last. “And look, I’m not going to lie to you, Roger. People have beat it in court.”

  “Then why can’t I? And what do you mean by that not being the worst of it?”

  “I think you’d lose, Roger.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because any claim you have is after your mother’s. A spouse might have a small chance. But a son, when the spouse isn’t a complainant . . . the court isn’t going to go against so much legal precedent for that. To have a chance, your mother would have to initiate the action. Risking your fifty grand is one thing. But if she contests, she’s risking the money she needs to live on. Losing would mean that she would be penniless. She’s too old to s
tart over, Roger.” Roger stared, ground to a halt, but Henry could see him working on things, trying to find a way through. “And even if you beat the in terrorem, that doesn’t mean you get more money.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? This is why people hate lawyers. If I win, I win, ain’t that right?”

  Henry ignored the insult. “Winning just means that the court invalidates the clause itself. Then the judge redistributes the estate the way he sees fit. The judge isn’t under any legal obligation to take things away from Boyd and give them to you. He might do that. He also might think you’re a complete jerk and take away what you have.”

  “Laws on top of laws,” Roger said, disgust on his face.

  Henry turned away, tiredness giving way at last to exhaustion. What he wanted, he realized, was to be out of the Crandall house and back in his motel room, leaving the Crandalls behind. No, he thought, what I want is to be back in Chicago, in a bathtub with Elaine, some nice music on, and a bar of soap. “Let’s take the night to think things over,” he said. “We’re not going to solve anything tonight.”

  Roger blocked his path to the doorway. “Look, Mathews, you said your piece a minute ago, and it’s my turn now.”

  Henry sighed. “All right, Roger. What is it?”

  “Fact is, I think I got a right to be upset. My own daddy has stabbed me in the back. You understand that? Not some stranger, my own daddy. And I’ll tell you somethin’ else, since we’re bein’ so damn honest. It pisses me off that you’re the one I got to talk to about my family’s business.” Roger’s anger was fueling him now, making him brave again. “You’re supposed to be this hotshot lawyer, too big for Council Grove. You went to the same school as me and everybody else in this town, but you had to get your ass up to the big city and sue rich people. But you better know right now there’s no way in hell I’m gonna take this lying down. That Birdman is not going to walk off with my money and he ain’t gonna live my life. I ain’t no fool. I know nothin’ ain’t final if you got the right lawyer. Ain’t that right?”

  Henry listened, not wanting what Roger said to be true. But his whole professional life was a testament to its accuracy. It was, in fact, the very truth that made his firm worth four hundred dollars an hour. “That’s right, Roger,” he said quietly. “Sometimes, anyway.”

  “Goddam right,” Roger snapped. “People makin’ millions of dollars off of hot coffee spillin’ in their laps. Now you’re supposed to be the real thing, ain’t you? Up in Chicago? So I want you to show me why a big-city lawyer like you was too good for Council Grove. I want you here at eight o’clock tomorrow morning ready to do something about all this.”

  “I don’t think you understand what I’m doing here, Roger,” Henry stated calmly. “I’m not your lawyer.”

  “You was my father’s lawyer, ain’t that right? And ain’t he dead now? So that makes you my lawyer.”

  “I’m still your father’s lawyer, Roger. That’s what an executor is. I’m trying to represent his wishes.” He paused, knowing that his next words would be further lacerations for Roger’s wounds. “And that’s why I can’t be here at eight o’clock tomorrow.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because the first thing in the morning I’m going to be trying to explain to Raymond Boyd that he has been named as the principal beneficiary of this will. I can’t even imagine what that conversation will be like.” Roger started to interrupt, but Henry stopped him. “I don’t like what’s happened here either, Roger. As far as I can see, it’s a complete shame. On the other hand, I’m not going to get disbarred because of it. I have to see Boyd before any other action is taken. You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do, but so do I. I’ve got legal obligations, and I’m going to see Boyd.”

  Roger’s eyes narrowed to tiny slits. He catapulted out of his seat, the self-control he had marshaled suddenly evaporating. “Get out!” he screamed. “Do you hear me? Get out of my house!”

  Henry rose, Roger’s outburst actually calming him, making him steady. “You know something, Roger?” he said. “I’m going to give you one last piece of advice, and it’s not legal. It’s the one thing you and I still have in common. What you’re going to find out before this is all over is that the thing about a father is to have him, no matter how big an asshole he was.”

  Roger glared silently for a moment, then spun on his heel and strode out of the room. Henry found himself suddenly alone in Ty Crandall’s study. He closed his briefcase deliberately, looking around at the awards and photographs on the wall, wondering what the man could have had in mind when he virtually cut his own family out of his estate. He would certainly have known how Roger would handle the decision. He wondered as well at his own father, who would also have anticipated this chaos, but chose to say nothing about it. Client-attorney privilege, indeed, Henry thought. He left the room and walked down the hallway to the front door, listening for the family; as he crossed the staircase leading upstairs, he could hear a woman weeping from above. He let himself quietly out, closing the door on a house full of misery.

  The Birdman looked up at the dry June sun and smiled. It was early morning but he could already tell the day would be hot, just the way he liked it. He had gradually acclimated to the heat, and he enjoyed seeing others suffer through it. If he suffered at all, he didn’t show it; the wrinkled brown leather of his face didn’t allow emotion to escape easily. He pulled his beat-up Stetson over his brow and hunched down in a crouch, knees bent like a baseball catcher’s. He smiled again, squinting and tossing his head left and right in short, jabbing motions. The brow of his hat bobbed and danced in the air, kicking up like a bronco shedding a rider.

  Council Grove was waking, but the Birdman had already been at his spot for over an hour. A car passed by, as it did at that time every day. The driver didn’t wave.

  The southeast corner of Custer’s Elm was the Birdman’s spot, five blocks off Chautauqua. There was little foot traffic there, which suited him—the heavy traffic near the courthouse and the bank made him uncomfortable. Not that he actually saw people much, or thought about their names. But the noise they made and the air they breathed intruded somehow, and he preferred to stay where the passersby were rare.

  The Birdman had been at Custer’s Elm for years—exactly how long nobody could be sure of, and in fact he had made it his spot by degrees, rather than in a moment. He had started by spending more and more time there one summer years earlier, sitting by himself for hours that eventually became endless. The little park had suited the Birdman perfectly even then, although in those days he still had a name. Raymond Boyd he had been called, although mostly that was forgotten now, even by the Birdman himself. It took hard thinking to recall it, and that was exactly what he didn’t like doing.

  As the Birdman settled into his morning routine, Henry sat in his car across town trying to organize his thoughts. If yesterday had been a debacle, he liked the job before him even less. One case, Henry thought as he started the car, seeing his father in his mind. You died and left me one thing to handle. And now I have to try to explain to a lunatic that he’s the richest man in town. It was impossible to predict how Boyd would react to the news, or even if he could comprehend it. There was an excellent chance that he wouldn’t allow Henry to get close enough to say a word. Worst of all, there was the bird—that creepy thing loomed over the whole enterprise—and Henry had to forcibly remind himself that he wasn’t the child who had been so unnerved by the creature years ago.

  He pulled out and headed back toward town from the motel. As with every distasteful job, it was best to do it directly and without delay. What happened next would have to take care of itself. If the Birdman proved as mentally incompetent as Henry assumed, the court could appoint a guardian to act on his behalf and manage any assets that survived the legal wrangling. But if by chance the Birdman was judged merely eccentric and unsociable, then the county’s most powerful man would be a mumbling old kook whose best friend was a large black vulture. />
  Henry drove west through town, turned off Chautauqua onto Owen-dale to pass by the Birdman’s house. It hadn’t changed appreciably, maintained just above the point at which the town could take action against it. The roof sagged a bit, the house needed paint, and the yard was high, but it was in no immediate danger of being condemned.

  There was no one around, and Henry turned right off Owendale toward Custer’s Elm Park. He slowed as he reached the south edge of the clearing and looked to his right across the grass; after yesterday, he wasn’t sure if Boyd was still likely to be found in his usual place. But then he saw him, a large, lumpy shape on his usual concrete bench. The great bird, unfortunately, was beside him as well, walking back and forth like a sentry before a tiny jail. Henry rolled closer, and the bird jerked his head up and squawked, walking sideways and flapping a wing. The Birdman stirred on his bench, coming to life in sections. His feet moved, then a leg, then his torso straightened. At last he raised his head and looked straight at Henry’s car. So much for the element of surprise, Henry thought.

  Henry picked up his briefcase and got out of the car. Birdman and creature both watched, four eyes in one unbroken stare. Henry stood beside his car, looking back across the edge of the park at the Birdman. Madness at twelve o’clock. God, I miss Chicago. The bird looked ominous as it stared, a wild thing that should be out in distant fields hunting for the dead. Reluctantly, Henry willed his feet to walk. As he approached, the Birdman’s features came into focus; the man looked a little more worn down, but with the same thin body, the same hat and leather face, the same brown eyes peering out from underneath the brim. His scraggly whiskers stuck out as before, but now more gray than brown. As Henry drew near, the bird’s agitation increased until it was walking rapidly in tight circles, rising tall on its legs and stretching its neck.

  Henry, determined not to show fear, walked steadily forward. Suddenly, the bird rose into the air and flapped away to the north, as if it had approved his presence. A hopeful thought formed in Henry’s mind: Maybe that thing isn’t really a malignant beast after all. Maybe it’s nothing but a big, ugly bird. Nevertheless, the sudden, noisy flapping of its wings was unnerving, and he stepped smartly back as the animal careened away. Henry was now about twenty feet away from the Birdman, trying not to look rattled. Boyd gazed up at him, his eyes barely visible under the shadow of the hat. He was whispering to himself, or to his ghosts. Henry could hear him but couldn’t make out any words, just syllables rolling around and falling back onto themselves in the man’s mouth. He was nothing like the winos and street people Henry had grown accustomed to in Chicago, rough-skinned men with the tough look of surviving downtown in a large city. There was nothing urban about Boyd. He was so covered with dust and grime that he looked perfectly at home in the park, almost like a kind of half-wild animal.