Gray Mountain: A Novel(106)

Mattie’s mornings were still slower, but she seemed to be finding her old self. Donovan’s absence was a jagged wound that would never heal, but she couldn’t stop living. She had too many clients who needed her, too many entries in her calendar. She rolled in just after nine and asked Samantha to step into her office. With the door closed, she explained that she’d lost sleep the night before worrying about those wretched Crump people and poor old dead Francine. The only ethical thing to do was to poll the local bar and see if anyone had been hired by the family. If so, they would zip over a copy of the will and start the war. Mattie handed over a list and said, “Not including us, there are fourteen lawyers in Brady, all alphabetized with phone numbers. I’ve already talked to three, including Jackie Sporz, the lawyer who did the will five years ago. None has heard from the family. You pick five and let’s get it done this morning. I’m tired of worrying about it.”

Samantha had met all but two. She went to her office, grabbed the phone, and called Hump. He said no, he’d never heard of the Crumps. Lucky for him. The second call was to Hayes Sinclair, a lawyer who never came out of his office and was rumored to suffer from agoraphobia. No, he had never heard of the Crumps. The third call was to Lee Chatham, a lawyer who never stayed in his office but was always hanging around the courthouse, posturing as if he had important business there and trafficking in gossip, most of which he created. Bingo. Mr. Chatham said yes, he had met with several of the Crumps and had a contract to represent the family.

Evidently, they were pressing ahead with their fiction that their mother destroyed the free will prepared by those crooks over at legal aid, and therefore things would revert back to the prior will, which split everything equally. Mr. Chatham’s plans were to open the estate in the near future and proceed with the prior will. However, they were bickering over who would serve as executor. Jonah, the oldest, had been appointed by Francine five years ago, but he was having heart problems (brought on by the stress of this situation), and probably couldn’t serve. When Mr. Chatham mentioned replacing Jonah with a substitute executor, a fight started amongst the other four. He was currently trying to arbitrate matters.

Samantha dropped the bomb about the mysterious package they had received the day after the funeral. She made sure Mr. Chatham understood that neither she nor anyone at the clinic had any desire to get involved in a will contest, but it was important for him to know that his clients were lying. By the time she hung up, he was mumbling incoherently to himself. She faxed a copy of the last will to his office, and left to tell Mattie.

“That’ll really piss ’em off, won’t it?” she said when she heard the news. “One threat, and I’m going to the sheriff.”

“Should we get some handguns?” Samantha asked.

“Not yet.” She tossed some papers across the desk. “Take a look.” It was thick, whatever it was, and Samantha sat down. “What is it?” she asked as she flipped a page.

“Strayhorn, notice of appeal in the Tate case. I talked to the trial judge late last week about the alleged settlement. Needless to say, he was not sympathetic, so we’re screwed. Now we have to slog our way through the appeals process and hope the Supreme Court doesn’t reverse.”

“Why am I holding this?”

“I thought you might be interested. And, Samantha, we need you to handle the appeal.”

“I think I saw this coming. I’ve never touched an appeal, Mattie.”

“You’ve never touched most things around here. There’s always a first time. Look, I’ll supervise, and you’ll learn quickly that it’s just a lot of paperwork and research. Strayhorn goes first and files their thick brief in ninety days. They will allege all manner of grievous errors at trial. We respond, point counterpoint. In six months almost all of the work is done and you’ll be waiting on oral argument.”

But in six months I’ll be gone, Samantha wanted to say.

“It’ll be great experience,” Mattie pressed on. “And for the rest of your life you can say you handled an appeal to the Supreme Court of the Commonwealth of Virginia. How can you top that?” She was aiming at levity but it was clear Mattie was anxious.

“How many hours?” Samantha asked. She was calculating quickly and already thinking that she could do virtually all of the research over the next six months, before she left.

“Donovan swore it was a clean trial, nothing major to quibble over on appeal. I’d guess five hundred hours, from now through oral argument, which is about fifteen months away. I know you’ll be gone by then, so one of us will handle that part. The heavy lifting takes place now. Annette and I simply do not have the time.”

Samantha smiled and said, “You’re the boss.”

“And you’re a dear. Thanks Samantha.”


Andy fired back:

Dear Miss Sam: Thanks so much for your lovely epistle. You’ve gotten so soft in only three months. Must be all those cookies. If I read you right, you want some assurances that you’ll be (1) adored by your bosses, (2) worshipped by your colleagues, (3) appreciated by your clients, (4) virtually guaranteed a partnership which will lead to a long, full, happy life, and (5) given enough office space to make you happy, in spite of the obscene prices per square foot now being demanded by Manhattan landlords (our clients), recession or not.

I’ll see what I can do. Attached is a bio of Nick Spane. Oddly enough, he’s had just one divorce and has been married to the same great gal for about fifteen years now. As you’ll see, he has no felony convictions for rape, child abuse, etc., nor has he been indicted for dealing in child porn. Too, he has never been sued for sexual harassment, or anything else for that matter. (His divorce was no-fault.) He’s actually a great guy, I swear. A Southern guy—Tulane, Vanderbilt Law—with impeccable manners. Odd for these parts.