The Twelfth Child (29 page)

Abigail, who by that time had to rely on a pair of spectacles to distinguish one face from the other, searched the room, still hoping to catch a glimpse of a tall dark-haired man lingering at the side of the crowd, waiting for a chance to step back into her life.  Although she knew that by now, his hair was probably silver and his shoulders stooped as hers, Abigail still pictured him as he had been the day he walked through the library door and asked to see a city map. 

In all the time they’d been together, there had been only one photograph of the two of them together – a grainy souvenir photo taken by the girl at the Tivoli Restaurant.  In it, John’s arm was draped over Abigail’s shoulder and they smiled at each other like lovers with no fear of the future.  That photograph was on Abigail Lannigan’s bedside stand the day she died.  

The Blind Eye of Justice

2001

H
erbert J. Hoggman, the lawyer Elliott retained to prosecute the civil case, was wide as a house and constantly belching – but a man rumored to be cutthroat in matters of litigation.  The interrogatories started six weeks after the civil complaint was filed in Dalton County Probate Court.  From the moment Mister Hoggman opened his mouth, you’d know whether he had eaten pastrami, pizza or banana blintzes for lunch because a rolling burp came with every question.  “Do you have the account number for Abigail Anne, burrrrp, Lannigan’s savings account?” he asked, but before Destiny could answer she had to fan the odor of fried onions from beneath her nose. 

Destiny offered up the account number, but before the smell of fried onions floated off, he burped a blast of strong coffee and asked for the dollar value of the account.  Elliott, who wasn’t allowed to ask anything, passed a note to Mister Hoggman. 
There’s more money
he wrote,
what about other accounts.
  “Did she have a household fund?” Hoggman asked.  “What about a Christmas Club?”  It was a sorry sight to watch them badgering Destiny over nickel and dime accounts, especially since she didn’t even know I had the bonds, let alone where they were hidden.

“It’s my understanding,” he said, “that Miss Lannigan’s, burrrrp, brother realized a sizeable profit from the sale of the family farm, burrrrp, now can you detail where exactly that money has gone to?”  She answered that to the best of her knowledge, the money was in my account at the Middleboro Savings Bank – then Hoggman asked the exact same thing all over again, just switching the words around.

“It’s in the bank,” Destiny told him over and over again, “almost one-hundred thousand dollars in the Middleboro Savings Bank!”

“The Lannigan farm sold for over a million dollars, and, burrrrp, you want us to believe a paltry one-hundred thousand is all that she had left?”

Destiny started to answer but before she could say yes, he burped again – directly into her face.  She finally asked for a break so that she could go out into the hallway for a breath of air.  

Once Mister Hoggman found out where my money was he went running to Judge Kensington and filed a motion to freeze the bank accounts.  “Those funds belong to the Lannigan estate,” he argued, “and should be held in escrow until a settlement decision is reached.”  It was ironic to note that when Mister Hoggman was standing before Judge Kensington, he spoke on and on without a single burp. 

Two days later, Charles McCallum received a notice indicating that Judge Kensington had granted the motion. “But,” Destiny exclaimed, “I won’t have enough money to pay you.”  She suggested she could take on the Saturday dinner shift, which usually meant pretty good tips, “I’ll pay on the installment plan,” she said. “Twenty-five dollars a week?”

Charles laughed, “Why, that would take
years
!”

Destiny, completely oblivious to the twinkle in his eyes, sighed.  “I suppose,” she said, “I could sell my car.”

Charles laughed again, then reached across the desk and took her hand in his.  “First, let’s concentrate on proving you’re innocent,’ he told her, “then we’ll worry about the money.”  That afternoon, after they finished reviewing the interrogatory transcripts, he took her to lunch.  He hooked his arm through hers and strolled past the luncheonette, past the pizza parlor and into Stephano’s – where they sat at a linen clothed table and shared a bottle of wine. 

“I owe you so much,” Destiny cooed in that sweet-voiced way of hers and I watched Charles McCallum’s face melt into a boyish grin of satisfaction.  Anybody with half an eyeball could see what was happening, and I’d already noticed that he didn’t have any woman’s picture sitting on his desk nor was he wearing a wedding ring.  Back when I was a young woman very few men wore wedding rings so you couldn’t tell if they were married or not; and I can certainly bear witness to all the heartache that causes.

T
he second day of depositions started off with a barrage of questions.  Where was this, where was that, what about the silver coffee service which, in all honesty, never existed.   Elliott was insistent that there was more money and a bunch of valuables his lawyer had not yet uncovered, so he continued writing notes to Mister Hoggman.  Each time a slip of paper was unfolded, the lawyer would ask about another far-fetched thing.  “Diamonds, maybe?  Gold Bullion?”

Destiny swore that, far as she knew, I had no other assets.  Elliott, making no effort to control himself, gave a loud facetious snort and Charles suggested that he be removed from the proceedings.  Mister Hoggman claimed such an action wouldn’t be necessary as his client had just been excising a frog from his throat, and, he assured, it wouldn’t happen again.

After that they went back to the questioning and Mister Hoggman got onto Destiny’s relationship with me.  “Exactly
when
did you meet Abigail Anne Lannigan?” he asked and belched up the odor of pickled herring.

“Let’s see now,” Destiny mumbled, obviously trying to come up with an honest answer.  “Six years ago.  I know it was six years ago, because I met her a few months after I moved into my house.”  She started to tell how the newspaper was stuck on the roof, but right off Charles whispered in her ear that she should stick to the shortest possible answers, and so she left the rest of the story untold.

“And, you were employed by Miss Lannigan for that entire period?”

“I didn’t work for Miss Abigail,” she answered.  “We were friends.”

“Ah,” he sighed in the most gratified manner, “so you charged one hundred dollars a month to be her
friend
?”

“I didn’t charge for being her friend!” Destiny snapped.

Before she could finish what she’d started to say, he was back at her.  “Then it wasn’t a salary?  You just used her account to arbitrarily write yourself a check for one hundred dollars every month?”

“That’s not it at all.  I took the money because she insisted on paying me.”

“Oh, really?”  He let go a rolling belch that rumbled up from a place so far down, it brought back the odor of kosher hot dogs he’d eaten two days ago.  “Did Abigail Lannigan ever sign those checks made out to you?”  Without giving her time to answer, he repeated, “Ever?  Even one time?”

Destiny’s lip started quivering.  “Well, no,” she answered.  “That’s what Miss Abigail had me do – write checks, take care of her financial affairs.”

“Judging from these,” he slammed a stack of bank statements down in front of her, “You took care of yourself!”

Charles jumped out of his chair so fast that at first I thought he was going to take a swing at someone, but instead he growled, “That’s
not
a question!”  He told Herbert J. Hoggman to stick to asking questions and keep his opinions to himself, then declared it was time to break for lunch.

“But,” Hoggman stammered, “I’ve got more questions.”  However, by that time Charles had taken hold of Destiny’s arm and they’d started out the door.

A
fter lunch Hoggman picked up where he’d left off.  “In December of last year,” he snarled, “you were the recipient of a twenty-five thousand dollar cashier’s check that was purchased with funds from the Lannigan account.  Explain that!”   

Destiny could tell he’d had fried chicken for lunch.  She waited for the smell to pass by, and then said, “It was a Christmas present from Miss Abigail.”

“Christmas present?  You already stated Miss Lannigan gave you an all-expense-paid trip to Palm Beach for Christmas.  Have you forgotten you told me that?  Or, was it a lie?”  He slammed his hand against the table. “Why don’t you just tell the truth – you helped yourself to that money, didn’t you?”

“No!” Destiny shouted.  “I did not!  It was a present from Miss Abigail!”

“Oh, really?  And just what Christmas gift did you give her?”

“A silk nightgown and a feather boa.”

“How generous!” Hoggman sneered as if he’d proven a point.  He then stretched his jaw open and gurgled up a burp with a stench that caused the stenographer to pause and wave it from beneath her nose.

“Excuse me,” the stenographer said, “could you repeat that last statement.”

“How generous!” Hoggman roared sarcastically.  “I was making a point of how generous this little swindler was to her victim!”  

“Okay!  That’s enough!” Charles handed Hoggman a roll of Tums.  “Either you restrain yourself from such unprofessional behavior, or this deposition is over.  As a matter of fact,” he said eyeing his watch, “I think my client has had enough for today – we’ll stop right here.”

Hoggman didn’t challenge the statement, but walked out and left the Tums lying on the conference room table.

“I
could use a glass of wine,” Charles said, as he and Destiny left the building.  “How about you?”

She nodded.  She would have answered, told him that she’d like nothing better, maybe even mentioned something about how she was hoping he’d ask, but there was a tremor stuck in her throat, a squashed down moan of exasperation.

They walked east on Charter Street and before they’d gone a block, Charles linked his arm through hers.  “Don’t worry,” he said in the most comforting manner, “you’re doing fine.  Depositions are always difficult.  Especially with Hoggman – he works at being obnoxious.”

The tremor in Destiny’s throat grew larger and caused her words to sound wrinkled, folded over, stacked on top of each other.  “I’m not,” she mumbled, “not what he said.  I never, never, ever swindled – she was, we were –”    

Charles stopped walking and loosened his arm from hers.  “Why would you think,” he said, taking hold of her shoulders, “you need to tell
me
that?”  With the gentlest touch of his fingertips he tilted her face upward so their eyes met.  For a long moment it seemed as though he was going to kiss her.  “I knew
exactly
what you were, the moment you walked into my office.  Miss Lannigan was lucky to have you for a friend.  Anybody would be lucky . . .”  His voice trailed off, then he smiled, hooked his arm back through hers and continued along Charter Street.

It was late October, the time of year when a cool wind blows and darkness comes early, but Destiny felt the heat of summer rising to her cheeks and she could swear a sunbeam was focused on Charles McCallum’s face. 
Anybody would be lucky . . .
the words kept running through her brain, words spelled out in bright lights like a Times Square sign, a message circling around and around, a message with the tail end missing.  “You said,” she started to ask, and then backed off.

“I said,” Charles repeated, “you’re doing fine.  There’s nothing to worry about.”

T
he next day Hoggman attacked Destiny on issues of where she’d gotten the money for her car, red fox coat, big screen television, and any other thing a person could possibly imagine.  “I understand that you’ve a brand new velvet sofa,” he said.  “Now, just where did the money for
that
come from?”

Destiny began to wonder if maybe there was a peeping Tom outside her window, someone taking inventory of everything she owned.  “Miss Abigail said it’s better to pay for a thing straight out rather than on the installment plan,” she answered.  “So, with that in mind, I figured –” She was on her way to telling the whole story of the conversation when Charles leaned over and whispered in her ear again.  She listened to what he had to say, then responded curtly, “The money came from the bank account which was given to me by Abigail Lannigan prior to her death.”  From that point on, she gave the same answer to almost any question Hoggman asked.

“What about the fur coat?” he repeated, and she started rattling off her statement saying that the money was given to her by Abigail Lannigan prior to death.  It was like a rubber stamp, smacked down after each question.

When Hoggman finally got tired of listening to Destiny repeat the words that Charles had whispered into her ear, he switched over to asking if Abigail Lannigan had ever given her a Power-of-Attorney document.

“Why would she do that?” Destiny asked.  “I wasn’t her attorney,” 

Elliott snickered at the answer, but when he caught sight of the mad look on Charles face, he stopped immediately.

“I know,” Hoggman sneered, “that you are not an attorney, that much is
obvious!
  But did you have legal authorization to make financial decisions and distribute funds from Abigail Lannigan’s account?”

“Miss Abigail changed her accounts to both our names ‘cause she wanted me to be able to sign checks – how much more authorization did I need?”

Charles gave her a wink of confidence, and smiled.

“Yes,” Hoggman shot back, “but, did she do so of her own free will or did you, taking advantage of the fact that she was elderly and in poor health, coerce her?”

“It was her idea!  She asked me to help out because she was getting forgetful.”

“Was it also her idea for you to help yourself to whatever you wanted?”

Charles set his hand on Destiny’s arm – his intent being to hold her back from responding to such a statement – but the silkiness of his fingertips sliding around her wrist prompted Destiny to stare at him, dreamy-eyed, like there was not another soul in the room.  For a moment he lost track of himself, forgot what he’d intended, forgot, in fact, where they were or what they were there for.  Not until she smiled, was he able to shake free, then he snapped, “That’s an improper line of questioning!”