Monday 9/29
MAYBE HE WAS TELLING THE TRUTH ABOUT ALL OF IT. ALL OF IT LED up to the night Christina Zhukovsky had died, and they were returning to that night in the words of the man who had evidently killed her.
Let him talk. From Salas’s rigid shoulders and Jaime’s intent eyes, Nina saw that they had no intention of inventing obstacles. Immersed in the testimony, the entire courtroom seemed to vibrate.
“What did you do after approaching Christina Zhukovsky in the guise of a home-security salesman?”
“The next day, I went to a lawyer. Alan Turk. The lawyer who handled Constantin’s estate.”
“I want every nickel accounted for,” Gabe had told the lawyer. He had dressed carefully in dry-cleaned navy blue slacks and a light blue dress shirt. He didn’t want to show up at a law office looking poor, like he was begging for something. Look powerful, be powerful. Across a shiny desk, Alan Turk played busy man, rearranging the orderly paperwork stacked in front of him, beside him, and behind him on a credenza.
“I’ve got a right to know the terms of my own father’s will, don’t I? As a member of the family.”
“Of course,” the lawyer said. He had listened to Gabe’s story about spying on Christina, about the theory that Constantin Zhukovsky had something to do with the Romanovs, and about how Gabe had offered Christina a gun in order to meet her, with an expression of complete disbelief. Then he had taken the 1973 copy of the marriage certificate of Wanda Sobczyk and Constantin Zhukovsky and read it word for word. Turk didn’t look very interested or very encouraging when he was finished. The lawyer held a folder up, like he ought to be thanked for achieving the bureaucrat’s eureka, the relevant closed file. He opened the file and read. “Hang on. My apologies,” he murmured, “just a second to review.” He scanned quickly.
Gabe looked around the office, at the Chinese vase on its carved pedestal, the silky rug, the display case of netsuke figurines, thinking he would have gone to law school if he’d had the money. He had cracked a few law books recently, since his mother’s little revelation and Christina’s blockbuster surprise, and he could understand most of it. You just had to want to know something.
He examined the books in cases against one wall. Yes, he could imagine himself, glasses on his nose, a client across from him needing his help, leafing through one of those red tax books, slapping it shut with satisfaction.
The lawyer looked up. “Tell me, Mr. Wyatt, why did you come to me?”
“Pretty obvious, isn’t it? I want to know the terms of his will, which I was left out of. This is California. My mother, who was legally married to the guy, was entitled to half the estate, wasn’t she, at least whatever he made while they were married. Well, she got gypped.”
“Ah,” he said. “I contacted your mother after you called, because I had a few questions, too.”
Well, in that case, Gabe thought, annoyed, why the big show about reading his notes again? He must have read them before calling Wanda. Maybe he was the forgetful type. Or maybe he was stalling Gabe for some reason.
“I was not aware Mr. Zhukovsky had remarried. However, he and your mother signed a prenuptial agreement. They weren’t that common in those days, but apparently it was something he had drafted by another attorney. She was kind enough to send me a copy. It’s all very aboveboard.”
“Secretive bastard didn’t even want his own lawyer to know about my mother,” Gabe said. “Either that or he didn’t trust you anymore.” He laughed.
The way Turk’s jowls hardened showed he did not find Gabe’s little joke funny at all. He was younger than Gabe’s mother, maybe in his middle to late fifties, not too wrinkled, but with a receding hairline he tried to disguise.
Turk tapped a pen against the edge of the desk, arched his back, and got comfy in his leather swivel chair. “I’d like to know more about your interest in the will, if I could.”
Inside, Gabe laughed at the language. He could do that too, push people around with a delicate hand. However, unlike this fancy attorney, he didn’t have to. “I don’t see why,” he said. “Obviously, I have a right to know.”
“This will was written and probated more than twenty years ago. Naturally, I’m curious.”
Gabe got it now. He might not appear aggressive, but old Turk wasn’t going to give until he understood the scene. Well, Gabe considered, what would it cost him anyway? Nothing. This guy couldn’t tell anyone about what they said in this room. Gabe didn’t have to go to law school to know that.
“I only recently found out my mother was married to the guy, okay? Otherwise, I promise you, I would have stopped by earlier.”
“You had no idea?”
“None at all. My mother kept the information from me.”
The lawyer nodded. “It’s straightforward,” he said. “He wrote the will right after he married your mother, but before you or your brother were born. Other than a few small bequests to charity and to his church up in San Francisco, your father divided his estate between his first two children, Christina and Alex Zhukovsky.”
“How much did they get? Exactly.”
Turk’s nose hid behind the file for another minute. Then he put it down and stroked it with his hands. “I can’t say exactly. That is not in the will, of course. Assets are calculated after debts are paid, holdings are sold, and so forth. But I believe, at least, if memory serves me, each of the heirs received roughly a million dollars.”
“Each.”
“Yes.” He kept his hands on the file as if holding tight to something precious. They looked cold, and the buff color of his skin roughly matched the manila folder.
“That’s a lot of apple pie.”
Turk shrugged. “I don’t know how he made his money. He must have invested wisely over many years.”
“You know what my mother got?”
“Three hundred thousand dollars, invested in an annuity with certain restrictions that passed outside the estate.”
“Four hundred a month to take care of her for life. I bet she thought that was some chunk. What a laugh by comparison, huh? She’s always had to work, you know, for as long as I can remember. While that- Ever seen Christina’s apartment?”
The lawyer said nothing.
“Well, I have. It’s a penthouse. Must have cost her a bundle. Maybe she owns the building. In those days, back in the seventies when he died, two million bucks was worth something, wasn’t it?”
“That’s certainly true.” The lawyer smiled slightly. He was still trying to figure Gabe out.
“There’s another issue.”
“Oh?”
Gabe couldn’t help laughing. “Well, I told you about this Romanov connection. Somehow Christina latched on to the idea that her father, our father, wasn’t just a page to the last tsar of Russia. She thinks he was his son.”
Alan Turk let out a snort of disbelief. “His son? His son? You mean, like the Anastasia stories?”
“She went to Russia and met some people and came back believing it. And she’s ready to go public with the idea, too.”
Gabe enjoyed the flabbergasted look on Turk’s face. “She must have some sort of psychiatric problem!”
“Yeah, delusions of grandeur,” Gabe said. “But even my mother says the old man talked more and more about Russia before he died. He said he couldn’t tell her all of it. He said he had decided when he came to America to keep his secrets.”
“You mean Christina’s going to say that she’s some sort of heir of the Romanovs?”
“The heir to the throne. She was the oldest of Constantin’s kids, and even though she was a daughter she thought she could be recognized by the Russian church, then the people. She thought she had a shot at it.”
“At what! There hasn’t been a monarchy in Russia since 1918!”
“Don’t ask me,” Gabe said. “Maybe she just wants to cause an uproar. Or the people behind her do. But here’s what I’m thinking. I know it’s a long shot, but maybe it’s true.”
“You’re joking!”
“Kind of, yeah. But. If it’s true-one chance in a million, I know-well, then, the old man might have escaped with more than the shirt on his back, you know what I mean? That’s why I think we need a thorough accounting.”
“I performed a thorough accounting. I’ll make you a copy of the Inventory and Appraisal filed with the Probate Court twenty-five years ago.”
“I’ll demand another search of that house he lived in. You didn’t know about this theory. We ought to search the chimney and under the house. And check if Christina or Alex grabbed anything they shouldn’t have before you did your inventory.”
“That’s assuming you have a claim.”
“Isn’t there a claim here?” Gabe said, looking the lawyer right in the eye. “I’ve been doing some reading. Our mother’s agreement with Constantin Zhukovsky doesn’t mention me and it doesn’t mention my brother.” He motioned toward the file Turk clung to so fondly. “Go ahead. Review away.”
“That isn’t necessary. You’re right. The agreement doesn’t mention you or your brother.”
“When people write wills, they are often advised by their lawyers to use a kind of general bequest-like, ‘I leave my estate to my children,’ unstated meaning, all of them, born or unborn, named or unnamed, right? But my father’s will didn’t mention us at all, did it?”
“The only heirs are specified. He was adamant.”
Protecting himself from any accusation that he did a piss-poor job, Gabe thought. A lawyer worth his salt would plan for the chance a child could be born or adopted after the will was written. “Therefore…” He was playing a little game, waiting to see if the lawyer was just testing him. Maybe he thought Gabe was dragging things out but knew nothing. “Come on. Help me out here.”
“You want to know if you and your brother have a right to some of the money your half-siblings inherited under your father’s will.”
“I wouldn’t have said it quite like that,” Gabe said. “No, I would have used the term ‘pretermitted heirs.’”
Turk stared down at the file as if reading something on its blank surface. When exactly was it that the pleasant, affable fellow who had greeted him at the door to his office just a short while ago turned so homely? Gabe decided he was one of those sorry men who looked best when smiling. Unfortunately, in his business, he probably didn’t smile all that much.
“You’ve been doing your research,” Turk said.
“Right.” Gabe folded his arms. Now it was his turn to be smug. “So, tell me, Mr. Turk. What’s our position?”
“You’re right. There is a California statute that protects pretermitted heirs, that is, children who have been left out of a testator’s will. It’s conventional thinking that a testator would have made provision for his or her children if he had given it some thought, which is the reason so many wills do leave a ‘class gift,’ including all heirs, named or unnamed. Obviously, Mr. Zhukovsky didn’t do that.”
A “class gift” had a ring to it. “He didn’t leave us out intentionally, right?”
“You know, Mr. Wyatt, it’s my belief, after talking with you and your mother, and remembering his insistence on the wording of his will, that he did, in fact, leave you out intentionally. I don’t know why.”
“But what I mean is, he didn’t say so in the will, did he? He didn’t say, ‘I’m leaving Gabe and Stefan and any other future kids out because I’m a dumb-ass.’ He didn’t leave us ten bucks or his Lionel train collection so he could get out of leaving us money.”
“That’s right.”
“Don’t I have this right? The law assumes it was an oversight, his not mentioning us. So, we can make a claim against the estate.”
“Mr. Wyatt…”
“Why not?”
“You don’t have a case.”
“Why not?”
“The will was executed and probated many years ago, over twenty years ago. A judge has already ordered the assets distributed. The paperwork’s done, signed and sealed. If your father had died without a will, your claim might be stronger.”
Gabe shook his head. What was with this guy? Didn’t all lawyers love meaty money cases? Where was the greedy glitter in his eye?
Turk was still talking. “An objection might be made that your mother had an obligation at that time to secure or protect your rights.”
“If,” Gabe said, striving for patience, “we had been old enough to figure out what was going on when the man died, or if our mother had the sense of a finch and had consulted a lawyer at the time and staked a claim, then what would have been our share?”
“There’s a formula. Quite simple really. You take the amount of the estate left to any children, and divide it by the total number of children.”
“A million each, in 1970s money.”
“Actually, probate was concluded in 1980.”
“Still. In those days, I’ll bet a house in Monterey could be had for fifty grand. And in these days, what with interest and all, what with accounting for inflation… it would be significant, wouldn’t it? Way more than a million. Double that, maybe. Or more.”
There it was, a gleam emanating from the lawyer’s brown, reliable eyes, focused directly on him. “Not exactly. It’s very complicated. You’re determined to pursue this?” he asked.
“Do you need a retainer for something like this, or is it a contingency deal?”
Turk smiled, but it wasn’t a warm one. Probably still pissed about failing to put a class-gift clause into the will in the first place, which would have saved them both a lot of trouble.
“This firm can’t represent you.”
“Why the hell not?” Gabe had just been getting used to the plush office with its black-shaded lamps.
“Even if there was something to dispute, there’s a possible conflict of interest. I handled the probate. I distributed the money. I attended the man’s funeral. In a sense, I represented the named heirs. Their interests are in direct conflict with yours. Therefore, it is my feeling that it would be unethical for me to handle your case.”
“Then why did you let me tell you the whole thing? You were curious?”
“It’s all pretty curious, but don’t worry. This conversation is privileged. I will never discuss it without your authorization, even if I am called into court.”
He stood. “Just for your information, I think it’s too late after a quarter of a century to reopen the probate. That’s not a legal opinion. I can’t advise you. I’d just hate to see you waste all your money on a court case that’s destined to go nowhere.”
“Well,” Gabe had said. “Thanks anyway.”
Gabe asked for a glass of water. Salas called an afternoon break, and then they resumed. The jurors showed no sign of the usual afternoon yawns.
“What did you do after seeing Mr. Turk, with regard to Christina Zhukovsky?” Nina asked him.
“A couple days later, I went back to Christina’s apartment on Eighth Street. We had made an appointment, and when I came back, I brought along a few motion-detecting lights, that kind of thing. Told her I didn’t have the gun, but I could bring it on Friday.”
“And when was this?”
“Thursday.”
“Why didn’t you just tell her the truth?”
“That I was her half-brother? I wanted to have another lawyer lined up and know exactly how we were going to proceed. I wasn’t ready.”
Nina shook her head. “What did she say when you told her about the gun?”
“She was impatient. She wanted it right away. We agreed I’d bring it over that Friday.”
“The eleventh of April, the night she died. And did you bring her a gun that night?” Nina asked, praying to herself, please, no interruptions, let him go where he’s going now…
“Yes.”
“What time did you arrive?”
“About ten. She opened the door right away. Dumb move. I could have been anybody.”
“You say, about ten?”
“I think so, yeah.”
“You had brought a gun?”
“I borrowed one from a friend of mine. It was just to get in and try again to look around. The first time she had watched me like a hawk.” Again that bitter smile. “I didn’t care about her stories. I didn’t care if she was stark raving mad. What I cared about was her money. Her and Alex’s money. But I decided to use the story to get to her. I wanted-I’ll be honest-I wanted to get into her place and look for documents.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to find out exactly how much money she had.”
The atmosphere of the courtroom closed around them, a mixture of sweat and too much stale air. Although it was nearly four o’clock, there was none of the usual coffee-deprived shuffling. It was a good jury.
Nina said, “What did happen?”
“She offered me a glass of brandy. I said sure, and she went into the kitchen. When she came back, I was looking in her desk drawer. My timing was off.”
“You say you touched her desk drawer?”
“It was a cold night. I was wearing gloves.”
“How long were you there before she came back in?”
“Coupla minutes.”
There seemed to be no limit to his cooperation. He was digging a grave like Stefan, only it was his own. Had Salas cautioned him properly about his rights? She hoped so. But Gabe barreled on, throwing the memories out as if he were projectile vomiting. He had a queer expression of distaste on his face now.
“She caught you?”
“Yes.”
“What happened then?” Nina asked, looking directly at the jury, not at Gabe.
“You know what? Her brother Alex was right. She was nuts. She way overreacted, got mad and, I think, scared. She didn’t ask what I was doing, but went back into the kitchen. It was as if she’d known all the time I wasn’t really there to help. I followed her. She threw a glass of brandy at me, connecting with my scalp. It was some thin little glass, so it hurt and shattered. Couldn’t have been worse. I put my hand up and I was bleeding. The situation was out of control. She screamed at me to get out before she called nine-one-one. I was so surprised that when she yelled at me to get out, you know what I did?”
“No,” Nina said. “What did you do, Mr. Wyatt?”
He seemed unaware of the impact of his words on the courtroom. Even the court reporter waited hungrily.
“I left. I just went like a kid obeying his mom. She slammed the door behind me.”
What, no murder? No hands around her neck? No struggle? All the air seeped out of the bloated balloon of anticipation in the courtroom.
“Your testimony is that you immediately left?”
Gabe spread his hands. “I swear it.”
“Did you then return?” Nina asked.
“No. I was bleeding. I went home and took care of myself. I gave my friend his gun back the next day.”
“You didn’t return later that night?”
“No.”
“You didn’t sweep up the glass?”
“What? No.”
“Mr. Wyatt, why did you run when we approached you in the hallway a few minutes ago?”
“I had a damn good reason. You people put my brother in jail on blood evidence. I knew my blood was there, too. I thought maybe you had found it finally, and would put me in jail, even though I had nothing to do with hurting that woman.”
“You’re trying to tell us,” Nina said, “that you were alone with Christina Zhukovsky late at night on the night of her murder. By chance, you were wearing gloves. The situation became violent. You were injured by her. You were jealous of her and searching through her private papers, but you didn’t kill her? Is that what you claim?”
“I don’t claim anything,” Gabe said. He nodded. “I didn’t kill her. It was my blood on that glass, that I admit, but I never touched her. She was alive and hopping mad when I left, but when I heard she had been killed, I knew how it would look. I broke down. I sat down at my house, waiting for the police. But they didn’t come. They arrested Stefan instead. They said he left blood there, too. I couldn’t figure out what was going on.”
Nina felt dizzy. The intensity of the last hour had drained her. Too much information bombarded her, too fast. Did they have enough from this brother who appeared willing to say anything except the ultimate thing, that he was guilty, guilty, guilty?
The blood! The most important thing! Confess or don’t confess, pal, she told Wyatt in her mind. You’re going to clear your brother. She turned briefly toward Stefan at the counsel table. Their eyes met and she tried to keep from giving him an encouraging nod.
The case against Stefan was starting to fall messily apart. But Stefan blinked at his brother’s testimony, trying to take it all in, frightened. He didn’t want it to be his brother.
“All right. Let’s get back to that blood you left in Christina’s home. Are you aware of Dr. Hirabayashi’s testimony earlier in this courtroom?”
“No.”
The judge allowed a brief explanation, which Gabe followed with amazement.
“I heard his blood was found at the scene, and there was nothing said about my blood. I assumed he went there after me that night. I couldn’t understand-”
“You suffered from leukemia when you were young. You were the recipient of a bone-marrow transplant?”
“Yes. It cured me.”
“Who donated the bone marrow that cured you?”
“Stefan was the donor.”
“Isn’t it true that you knew your brother, the defendant, shared the same blood as you?”
“Wait a minute, I had no idea. How could we still have the same blood? The transplant was so many years ago, I assumed by now I had my own blood, you know, that it came back.”
“That’s not how it works, Mr. Wyatt,” Nina said.
“Objection.”
“Sustained. Strike that last statement by counsel.”
Nina walked back to the counsel table and picked up her notes. The courtroom was waiting, on her side. Salas actually rubbed his hands together, a sign that he was excited. She knew exactly what question to ask now, what the answer had to be.
“How did Christina Zhukovsky come to have your brother’s name and phone number?”
“She asked me at one point if I knew anyone who could help her with odd jobs. I was trying to get close to her. I wish to God I hadn’t done it.”
Bingo! And Christina passed Stefan to Alex! A huge hole in Stefan’s story was filled in.
“How helpful of you. Isn’t it-”
“Objection!”
“Sustained. Counsel, do not comment on witness testimony. The jury will disregard the comment.”
Nina knew that she was too excited. Moving away from Gabe Wyatt, she got as close to the jury as she dared, hyped up, angry, outraged at what he had put Stefan through. She made sure her voice carried to the back rows as she asked, “Isn’t it true that you planned to kill Christina Zhukovsky and set your brother up as her killer?”
“No!” His voice softened. “I’m embarrassed to admit, I really thought Stef must have done it. He’s always been the one who screwed up. This time, I thought, he must have gone in way too deep. I never wanted to be the one who connected my brother directly to Christina. I tried to protect him.”
“But all along, it was your blood on the glass, Mr. Wyatt. You killed her, didn’t you? And then you told lies to protect yourself. This is your chance to make things right for your brother. Tell this jury the truth.”
“I am making things right. I’m telling the truth. I didn’t kill her.”
“You spied on Christina. You were at the scene of her murder in the time frame of her murder. You admit to a violent confrontation. Your jealousy and hatred of this woman, who had grown up with your father’s love and been given his money, got the better of you that night, didn’t it, Gabe?” Nina said.
“No! Somebody came there after me! If it wasn’t Stef, then-I-”
Nina turned to the jury.
“Expect us to believe that?” she said softly.
“Objection!” Jaime roared.
“Withdrawn. I am finished with this witness, Your Honor.”