The Twelfth Child (Serendipity #1)(89)
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.”