Water's Edge (12 page)

One file raised an issue of federal law unfamiliar to Tom. He checked the books on his father’s shelf and didn’t find a resource that could provide an answer. Because his father never subscribed to an online legal search engine, Tom’s only recourse would be to use books. The best place to do that would be the county law library.

Locking the office, he walked up the hill to the courthouse. The law library was on the second floor next to the jury room. As he climbed the steps, Tom met an older lawyer on his way down. It was Lamar Sponcler. They stopped and shook hands on the landing.

When the plaintiff’s lawyer was younger, he had a thick mane of wavy black hair. Now Sponcler’s hair was wavy and completely white, but his eyes retained the fiery spark that made hostile witnesses fear that the next question from his lips would torpedo their testimony.

“If you’re going to see Judge Caldwell, he’s in his chambers with Charlie Williams and a defense lawyer from Rossville,” Sponcler said.

“No, I was going to do some research.”

“Research?”

“Yes. My father never subscribed to a legal research service. In fact, he never bought Bernice a computer.”

“He had his ways.” Sponcler chuckled. “What’s your issue?”

Tom told him. The spark in the older lawyer’s eyes ignited.

“I had that come up in a case several years ago. It’s a tricky procedural point.”

“Would you be willing to represent the client?”

“I’d rather we do it together.”

“Together? I’m here to shut down my father’s practice, not keep it going.”

“Why do that? I heard what happened to you in Atlanta. Take it from me, Bethel is a great place to ply your trade. I’ve made tons more money here than I would have wasting my career working for someone else in a silk-stocking law firm.”

Tom’s mouth dropped open. “How did you know I lost my job?”

“Charlie Williams mentioned it when I saw him earlier today.”

“How did he know?”

“Legal gossip has always been faster than the Internet,” Sponcler said, shifting his briefcase to his other hand. “Look, your former firm’s mistake can be Bethel’s gain. I’m winding down my practice and would be glad to help you get up to speed on plaintiff’s work. I can’t stand the thought of retiring and all the good cases going to Reggie Mixon. He’ll lose the close ones and settle the rest for half what they’re worth. Believe me, contingency work beats the daylights out of being tied to the billable hour.”

“I don’t know.”

“Think about it,” Sponcler said with a smile. “I’ll swing by and take you to lunch one day so we can talk some more. I can be very persuasive when I put my mind to it.”

Sponcler continued down the stairs. Tom entered the windowless room that housed the county law library. Musty books lined the walls. It took him forty-five minutes to find what he needed and make notes on a legal pad about the relevant cases. Sponcler was right. It was a tricky point of procedure. Tom was replacing the books he’d stacked on the table when the door opened. It was Judge Caldwell. Tom immediately stood up.

“Have a seat,” the judge said with a wave of his hand. “The courtroom is thirty-five feet east of here.”

Unlike Lamar Sponcler, Judge Nathan Caldwell’s hair had fallen out instead of turning white. His bald head shone as if buffed with a cloth. An angular, bony man, the judge looked best concealed in a black robe. Dark-framed glasses, which had been the style when he was first appointed to the bench and recently returned to vogue, rested on his nose. He sat across the table from Tom.

“How are you doing, son?” the judge asked.

“Okay, I guess. Thanks for the message on the answering machine at the office. I was going to stop by and see you before I left town. My father had a lot of respect for you too.”

“He will be missed. Death comes to all of us, but it has a greater sting when it strikes a man or woman who gave more to life than they took.”

“Yes, sir.”

The judge took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Charlie Williams told me what happened at your law firm in Atlanta. Sorry to hear about that.”

“I saw Lamar Sponcler on the stairs, and he mentioned it too. How did Charlie find out?”

“He brought your name up to someone in Atlanta who knew about it.”

“Any idea who it was?”

“You’d have to ask him.” The judge returned his glasses to his nose. “Both Charlie and Lamar think you ought to consider moving back to Bethel. A small-town law practice has its unique challenges and benefits.”

“I’ve been hearing that from a lot of people, but I’m only in town for a few weeks to close down my father’s practice and try to land a job with another firm in Atlanta.”

“I understand, but I hate to see good people leave Bethel. The most important thing is to take the good influence your father had on you wherever you go.”

Judge Caldwell was treating him like a peer.

“I’ve not valued what my father had to offer as much as I should.”

The judge smiled. “That’s the testimony of an honest witness. Just remember that what he gave you is like seeds inside you. Give them water and light and they’ll grow.” The judge leaned back in his chair and studied Tom for a moment. “Did you know your father occasionally came by my office to chat even when he didn’t have a legal matter to bring before me?”

“No.”

“It started years ago. As a judge I have to isolate myself from both the public and the lawyers who appear before me. But with your father I could crack that door open without compromising my obligation to neutrality. If I saw him the next day in court, I could listen to his argument and either accept it or reject it without regard to what we’d discussed in private. That’s rare.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Everything from fishing to the people who were important to us.”

Tom looked down at the table for a moment. “We didn’t have that kind of communication, especially after my mother died.”

The judge leaned forward. “Even though he may not have told you how much he cared about you, I know that he did. Sometimes we have the hardest time telling the people we love the most how much they mean to us.”

“Did he ask you to tell me this?” Tom asked in surprise.

“No, but I knew him well enough to believe he’d want me to. That’s why I asked you to come see me in the phone message I left at his office.”

“Do you think my father would have wanted me to continue his practice?”

“He would have been more interested in you continuing his faith.”

Tom pressed his lips together and didn’t respond. The judge took out one of his cards and wrote something on the back.

“Here’s my cell phone number. You don’t have to go through any hoops to talk to me.”

After the judge left, Tom remained at the table, staring unseeing at the bookshelf across the room.

chapter
TEN

W
hen he returned to the office from the courthouse, Tom dove into the financial records stashed in his father’s credenza. His heart sank as he pulled out stacks of handwritten receipts, scribbled entries, and hard-to-decipher notes in the margins of the old-fashioned checkbooks. He cleared everything else from the top of the desk and began placing everything in little piles. Tom couldn’t understand why his father hadn’t bought a simple computer-software bookkeeping program.

Three hours later, and to his great relief, Tom had determined the general business account contained a few thousand dollars with no significant checks outstanding. A stack of bills, some overdue, would take the account to zero, leaving Tom on the hook to pay Bernice’s salary for the days she’d worked since John Crane’s death.

Tom’s concern about the IRS was confirmed. His father had made three payments of $10,000 each, leaving an amount owed of $167,000. There wasn’t that much money in the estate. Fortunately, the IRS couldn’t hold Tom personally liable for the remaining balance. He closed the tax file. His inheritance would be limited to the goodwill expressed by people like Judge Caldwell and the folks from the Ebenezer Church.

Finished with the regular account, Tom found the trust account records in a separate drawer. Every lawyer is required to keep money that belongs to clients or third parties in a separate bank account. It was embarrassing that his father owed the government money, but it would be a permanent moral stain on John Crane’s good character if Tom uncovered irregularities in the trust account. There hadn’t been much activity in the trust account, and Tom was able to quickly verify correct amounts for ten open cases and made notes so he could notify the clients. A slip of paper stuck in the margin of the trust account check register caught his eye.

DTA – SDB – 35-89

The initials didn’t make sense, but the numbers were part of John Crane’s method of case identification. The first two digits were the length of time his father had been practicing law—thirty-five years at the time of his death. The second set of numbers indicated the order in which a case was opened in a calendar year. Tom moved a few boxes and found the cases that contained files opened since the beginning of the year. He flipped through the folders looking for number 35-89. When he found it, he didn’t have to pull it from the box to discover what it contained.

It was the Addington matter.

Tom knew the file folder was empty, but he carefully inspected the manila cover for any writing or notation, no matter how faint. There was nothing except a slightly bent tab on top. He searched both the regular and the trust accounts for any references to money paid by or to Harold Addington. Nothing turned up. Stumped, he knew there was only one person who might be able to help him. Picking up the phone, he called Bernice.

“It’s Tom.”

“Thanks for checking on me,” she said. “I’m alternating between an ice pack and heating pad, and it seems to be helping.”

“Keep it up. Listen, I’ve been going through the bank records—”

“Uh-oh.”

“No, no. Everything seems to be okay. But I found a slip of paper in the trust account ledger with ‘DTA – SDB – 35-89’ written on it. That’s the file number for the empty folder with Addington’s name on it. Did Harold Addington ever pay him any money?”

“Not that I remember. Did you find any deposits to the trust account in Addington’s name?”

“No, and I checked for any fees coming into the operating account since the beginning of the year. Any chance there might be something before that?”

“I doubt it. They didn’t start spending time together until late February or early March. Before that, it was too cold to go fishing.”

“Okay, get some rest.”

“If I wake up in the morning and feel better, I’m going to get in the car and come down for a few—”

“Bernice,” Tom interrupted.

“Yes, sir. I’ll stay home if I need to.”

After Tom hung up the phone, he opened his wallet and took out the business card Rose Addington had given him. He didn’t have much to tell Esther and Rose Addington, but he owed them a brief response to their questions. He dialed Rose’s number. She answered on the third ring, and Tom identified himself.

“Is your mother available?” he asked.

“She’s resting right now. May I take a message and have her ring you later?”

“Uh, I can probably fill you in.” Tom quickly summarized what he’d found in the trust account ledger. “I wish I could shed more light on the matter, but I can’t. The small amount of money left in the trust account is clearly linked to other clients, and there’s no record of a fee paid by your father to the operating account.”

“Can you come over now?” Rose responded.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s too late for tea, but maybe you could drop by on your way home? Mum lives at 4598 Windermere Lane.”

Tom knew the street. He passed the entrance to the subdivision on the way to and from Elias’s house.

“Why do you want to see me?”

“So we can have a chat.”

The British lass wasn’t very chatty.

“Okay. Would thirty minutes be too soon?”

“That will be fine. Do you need directions?”

“No.”

Tom turned onto Windermere Lane, a short cul-de-sac at the backside of a subdivision known as Western Heights, a neighborhood of well-built two-story brick homes on large lots in natural settings. As soon as he heard the address, Tom knew that Harold Addington, even if he was a disappointment to Arthur Pelham, must have earned a decent salary. The Addington house was on the right as he entered the cul-de-sac. Tom drove through a buffer of trees and parked in front of the house. The small yard between the natural area and the house was carefully manicured, the bushes neatly trimmed. Twin stone lions crouched on either side of the front door.

Something about the place made Tom uneasy. He looked around. There were multiple cameras on the house and several on trees in the wooded area. Extensive home security systems weren’t common in Etowah County. Some residents didn’t even lock their doors at night. He walked up the steps and stood between the lions while he pressed the doorbell. The glass sidelights were obscured by intricate ironwork, which doubled as a barrier to forced entry. He heard two dead bolts click before the door opened. Rose Addington, wearing blue slacks and a gray shirt, stood on the threshold.

“Come in,” she said with a smile. “Mum is in the kitchen.”

Tom followed her from the foyer into a formal living room. The interior of the house was furnished with typical American furniture.

“Did your father work from home?” Tom asked.

“Quite a bit, actually. He had an office upstairs.” Rose pointed to a long staircase. “After you called I double-checked the checking account records for the year and didn’t find any payments by Papa to your father’s office.”

“Neither did I.”

“But that doesn’t answer all our questions.”

Tom noticed two more surveillance cameras that monitored activity on the staircase. They passed through a dining room into a long narrow kitchen with a breakfast nook. Esther Addington, looking tired, was sitting at a round table surrounded by four chairs. She extended her hand to Tom.

“I’m not feeling too well today,” she said. “Please sit down.”

Tom and Rose sat on opposite sides of Esther.