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.”
“Automatically!” a plumber, who up until now hadn’t said a word, added.
“He ain’t the only kin,” Blondie argued. “Apparently, there’s one-hundred and forty-seven other Lannigans. Like her lawyer said, if this guy gets the estate, every one of them relatives ought to get their part.”
“Okay,” Cohen said begrudgingly, “we make the girl pay back everything she’s spent, then we’ll give the whole ball of wax to all of the Lannigans and let them divvy it up. How’s that sound?”
“Absolutely not!” Eleanor snapped. “I’ll not go along with making that girl give back one nickel!”
“Me neither,” Blondie said.
“Nor will I,” a woman who’d been filing her fingernail echoed.
“We ought to give Destiny Fairchild everything,” the housewife repeated. “That’s what the old woman wanted and that’s what we ought to do.”
“The law says if there’s no will –”
“Law-schmaw,” Blondie sneered. “If there wasn’t no question about what ought to be, then there wouldn’t have been no trial!”
They argued it back and forth for another two hours, and then sick of hearing what one side or the other thought, they worked out a compromise and sent word to Judge Kensington that they were ready with a verdict. I have to say, I really did admire the way Eleanor stood up for things, in fact the way several of those women argued and argued for what they thought was right. I didn’t much agree with their final decision, but I suppose under the circumstances, it was the best they could do.
“L
adies and Gentlemen of the jury,” Judge Kensington said, “have you reached a verdict?”
“We have, Your Honor,” Herman Cohen answered. “Assuming that this petition has been filed on behalf of all Lannigan descendents, we find for the plaintiff, and award the remaining assets in Abigail Lannigan’s estate to be divided proportionally among the one-hundred and forty-eight eligible relatives. We also find that the defendant has acted in good conscience, and therefore, no restitution of assets is warranted.”
Destiny asked Charles, “Does this mean Elliott will get her house?”
“Not him,” Charles answered. “The estate. The house will be sold, and the money in the estate divided among all one hundred and forty-eight Lannigans. The good news is that you don’t have to make restitution for anything, and you’re rid of Elliott.”
She looked at him teary-eyed, “Thanks,” she said, “for everything.” As they walked down the courthouse steps, Destiny said, partly to Charles and I believe partly to me, “I know Miss Abigail’s happy that Elliott didn’t get everything.”
“She’ll be
very
happy,” Charles replied, “because by time they probate those holdings and pay out lawyer’s fees, he’ll probably get less than one thousand dollars.”
“Honestly?” Destiny squealed.
“Honestly,” Charles repeated, then he wrapped his arm around her shoulder.
Lord Almighty, I thought,
I certainly do like this young man!
Three Months Later
A
fter the trial Judge Kensington allowed that Destiny could select three things from my house to keep as personal mementos, nothing valued at more than three hundred dollars, he told her and a sheriff’s deputy would have to escort her through the house to make certain of the fact. I, of course, was hoping she’d take the picture of Will that was hanging on my bedroom wall, but she passed it by and took the tiny little snapshot of me and her with our painted pink toenails. After that, she rummaged through my jewelry box and scooped out my mama’s wedding ring – she remembered how much I’d treasured it. The third thing she took was the little leather pouch I’d kept under my pillow all the days of my life. The leather was dry and crackled, worn thin as a piece of parchment paper, but the yellow tie was still knotted tight. When I was sick in bed and waiting to die, I told Destiny the story of that pouch. “It’s the heart of a she wolf,” I said, “a woman of magical powers gave it to me on the day I was born and I’ve carried it with me ever since. It gives a person the courage to get through some mighty rough times.”
When the sheriff’s deputy saw Destiny reach under my bed pillow and take that little pouch, he said, “Wait a minute, what’s that you have?”
I suppose he figured the purpose of him being there was to make certain that she didn’t take something real valuable.
“It’s the heart of a she wolf,” Destiny answered.
“Yeah, sure.” He had the look of a man who figured himself being played for a fool. “Let’s just have a look.”
“It’s not supposed to be untied.”
“If I don’t check what’s in there,” he said, “you can forget about taking it.”
Destiny reluctantly handed over the pouch and watched as the deputy tugged loose the leather tie. Despite its years, the tie unfurled as easily as a satin ribbon.
All my life, I’d believed that pouch contained the heart of a she wolf, and many a time when I felt so worn down that I thought I couldn’t get through another day, I’d remind myself that some brave wolf gave up that heart for me. I’d go to sleep thinking about that, and then the next morning I’d get up and move on with my life. When the deputy opened the pouch and poured out a handful of Shenandoah Valley sand, I laughed so loud it sounded like the thundering of a rain storm.
“You sure
this
is what you want?” the deputy asked, and Destiny nodded. He poured the sand back into the pouch and handed it to her.
Those three things surely weren’t the most practical choices, but my heart was certainly touched by the love that went into picking them.
Mister Hoggman refused to waste any more time arguing an appeal – it was a decision he made as soon as he learned that there wasn’t any million dollar inheritance and his thirty-percent fee would be fifty thousand dollars instead of the four-hundred-thousand he’d been expecting.
Elliott, on the other hand, never could accept that there was no million dollars to be found. While Destiny and Charles were on their honeymoon, he, acting as executor of my estate, came and cleared out my house. He tore through things like a sore ass bull, yanking stuff out of drawers and closets, shaking loose every towel and blanket in the linen closet, ripping the linings out of coats, still looking for some lost bankbook or safe deposit box key that would lead to the missing million. I always knew that man didn’t have a bit of love for anybody or anything, except maybe the money, and he certainly proved me right. Without giving a second thought, he threw my personal belongings in plastic garbage bags – perfectly good clothes that should have gone to the Salvation Army for poor folks to get some use out of, but he wadded them up and tossed them out. He ripped open every garment bag and suitcase he could find, the entire time cussing and ranting like a man gone crazy. “Son-of-a-bitch,” he’d yell and bust up some little knickknack that I’d had for fifty years or more. He even sliced a big hole in my mattress and box spring, figuring the money might be hidden in there. Not one thing of sentimental value did he set aside. My good dishes, that for years and years I’d washed by hand so they wouldn’t get the least little chip in a cup or saucer, he threw into a garbage pail and shattered into a million pieces. I can’t say it didn’t hurt to see him treating my things in such a manner, but I kept watching because I wanted to know what would happen to the picture of Will I had hanging on my bedroom wall. Elliott walked right by it a half-dozen times, then he finally yanked it off the wall and tossed it into a garbage bag along with two photo albums and my picture of John Langley. Well now, I thought, that’s that.
Elliott had always let on like he was real fond of my brother, but when it came down to it, Will was just another chunk of garbage to him. They say God works in mysterious ways, and I for one believe it. If Elliott had honestly cared about Will, he would have held on to the photograph – and who knows, maybe sooner or later he would have found those bonds hidden behind the picture.
Elliott – well, after they sliced up the money from my estate, he got five-hundred and eighty-seven dollars – the exact same amount as went to Lannigan Families up and down the Shenandoah Valley. Housewives who barely recognized the name Lannigan would open up the envelope and gasp at a windfall they’d never expected. Emma Mulberry bought a new washer and dryer; Albert Bennigan had his tractor repaired and splurged on a gold locket for Mary, his wife of thirty years; Susan Carter bought her daughter a wedding dress, some pearl earrings and a blue garter. All in all, I’d say spreading that money around brought a lot of happiness to a lot of people – well, all except Elliott. He kept looking for that missing million, until finally the bitter taste of frustration settled into his stomach and gave him an ulcer.