MacPherson's Lament

for nothing.

He had been cordial enough, though. Ushering her into his oak and green leather consulting room, he had listened carefully to her description of the Mosier case and the quandary over whether or not Tug was guilty of murder.

“And what do you want me to do, Miss Hill?” he asked when Powell’s explanation finally wound down.

“Well, I was wondering if you could examine my client and try to determine whether or not he did it. Give him some tests, perhaps.”

Arthur Timmons considered the matter for a few moments. “Tests,” he mused. “There are some measures that we could take to try to restore his memory of the night in question. Hypnosis. Using a drug to put him into a semiconscious state so that he can discuss that night without inhibitions. But are you sure you want to do that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” asked A. P. Hill.

“Because he might remember. Right now you can plead your client innocent with perfect sincerity, since you have no conclusive evidence that he did it. But what are you going to do if I regress him, and he promptly confesses to the murder?”

A. P. Hill looked thoughtful. “I suppose I would have to concentrate on mitigating circumstances,” she said. “Diminished capacity. Accident. I’d have to know the circumstances before I could make any decision about how to proceed. I think, though, that Tug Mosier would like to go through with the tests, if possible. He’s grief-stricken over Misti Hale’s death, and he genuinely seems to want to know if he did it.”

Dr. Timmons scribbled a few notes and then looked up with a sad smile. “I think you’re taking a great risk by doing this,” he said. “It has been my experience that most trial lawyers aren’t interested in the truth. They’re interested in a game plan. But talk to your client, Miss Hill. If he truly wants to resolve the question of his guilt, I will do what I can to assist you.”

“There’s one other thing,” said Powell. “I’m court-appointed, you see, and we don’t have any money to spend on medical experts.”

“I assumed that,” said Timmons, still smiling. “Poor and honest seem to go together, don’t they?”

Edith came into the office, closed the door behind her, and stood with her back against it. Her expression brought to mind the expendable blonde in reel one of a horror movie.

“What is it?” chuckled Bill. “Mr. Trowbridge in person?”

Edith shook her head. “It’s that ornery man who bought the Home for Confederate Women, and if you thought he was bad before, you ought to see him now. He’s about ready to spit nails.”

“Oh, boy! I hope it isn’t termites. Did he say what he wanted?”

“No, but judging from his expression, I’d say he wants to use your scalp for pom-poms.”

“Hmm,” said Bill. “That doesn’t sound good. Is Powell here? No, of course not. She’s in Richmond, isn’t she? Well, let them in, and I’ll try to straighten this out.”

“Okay,” said Edith. “I just thought I’d warn you.” She mustered a wan smile and went out to face the visitors. Seconds later, Bill’s door burst open again, and John Huff stormed in, followed by an officious-looking young man with a clipboard.

“Hello, Mr. Huff,” said Bill, coming out from behind his desk with an outstretched hand. “What can I do for you?”

Huff ignored the friendly greeting and turned to his companion. “That’s him.”

Randolph Custis Byrd bustled forward and introduced himself in condescending tones. “Am I to understand that you sold the Home for Confederate Women to this gentleman last month for more than one million dollars?”

“I represented the sellers,” said Bill. “Why? What’s the matter?”

“You represented the sellers,” echoed Byrd with a tight little smile. “And who were the sellers, may one ask?”

“Well… the Confederate widows. Daughters, actually, I think. There were eight of them. Miss Dabney, Miss Pendleton… I could look up the names.”

“I never saw them,” said John Huff. “You ran the ad in the newspaper.”

“Well, yes,” Bill admitted. “They instructed me to. They’re very elderly, and they didn’t want to be bothered with telephone calls.”

“And when I flew down to Danville, you drove me out to the house and showed me around, but there was no one else there.”

“They went out to tea,” stammered Bill. “They were a little upset about… uh… selling their home.”

“But you didn’t see them at all, Mr. Huff?” asked Byrd.

“I did not.”

“And then you decided to purchase the house,” Byrd continued, staring at Bill as he spoke. “You signed the papers here, I believe?”

“That’s right,” said Huff grimly. “And he signed on behalf of the sellers. Said he had their power of attorney. We transferred the money from my bank to an account in his name.”

Bill’s head was reeling, and for a moment he thought he was back in one of his bar exam nightmares. “I can explain all that,” he stammered. “The old ladies didn’t want to come down to the office because one of them had a doctor’s appointment. It was short notice, you remember.”

“What doctor?” said Byrd quickly.

“How should I know?” snapped Bill. “I can’t even remember which old lady. We could ask them, I suppose. Now, will one of you tell me what this is all about?”

Huff ignored the question. “What did you do with the money, MacPherson?”

Bill blushed. “It’s going to sound crazy,” he said with a little laugh. “But the old ladies claimed they didn’t trust American banks. They asked me to deposit the money in a numbered account in the Cayman Islands. Can you imagine?”

Nobody laughed with him.

John Huff looked like a thundercloud. “A numbered account in the Cayman Islands! I’m surprised you had enough savvy to come up with that.”

“I didn’t do it,” said Bill. “The old ladies did. I don’t know how they came up with the notion.”

“Banks in the Cayman Islands won’t give out any information about their accounts,” said Huff. “They won’t say how much money the account holds, and they won’t tell you whose account it is, either. Of course you knew that.”

Bill looked from Huff to Byrd and back again in disbelief. “You don’t think I did it?” he gasped. “You think I opened that account and kept the money?”

“It seems obvious to me,” said Huff, stone-faced.

“But the fraud goes well beyond that,” Byrd pointed out. “That house is state property. We had filed a writ of eminent domain, claiming the property for use as an art museum for southwest Virginia. No one had any authority to sell it.”

“We did a title search,” Bill protested. “We got a clear title! Mr. Huff’s lawyer must have double-checked that.”

“I intend to find out,” said Huff grimly. “And if he didn’t, I’ll have his job at Fremont, Shields & Banks!”

“If the acquisition notice is not on file in the courthouse, that adds to the seriousness of the fraud,” said Byrd. “Tampering with legal documents for the purpose of fraud.”

“But I didn’t!” wailed Bill. “At least I didn’t do the title search. But Edith wouldn’t do a thing like that.”

“Get her in here,” said Huff.

Edith Creech appeared in the doorway. Huff, his eyes glittering like a snake’s, waved the title in front of her, and said, “MacPherson claims that you did this title search. Is that correct?”

“I went to the courthouse and found it,” said Edith warily. “Why?”

“Did you leave out anything? A document with a state seal on it, for example?” asked Custis Byrd.

“I don’t think so.”

“And you witnessed this power of attorney, signed by the eight residents of the Home for Confederate Women.”