Proof of Intent (32 page)

“I see. And was Diana Dane a client of yours?”

“Strictly speaking, no. The other thing I failed to mention is that once a trust is established, it must be maintained. The assets of the trust must be managed and the wishes of the founder of the trust—as set down in the written trust—must be executed. The reason I bring this up is that, again, strictly speaking, Shearman & Pound is a trustee—meaning that we actually hold title to the assets which are held in trust as per the instructions by the late Diana Dane's grandfather under testamentary trust.”

“Let me get this straight . . .” Stash biting his lip in mild puzzlement, playing country lawyer to the hilt. “So you don't actually work for a living person?”

“Correct.”

“No boss, no nothing? Must be nice.”

A brief, not entirely warm smile. “Legally speaking, our boss is the language of the trust itself. Naturally we are required to account for our actions to the beneficiaries.”

Stash handed her a document. “Could you identify this?”

“This is the deed of trust that establishes an entity known as the Testamentary Trust of Albert Goodwin van Blaricum. It's dated 1961 and is signed by Albert van Blaricum, Diana's grandfather, as well as by a predecessor of mine at the firm.”

“You say every trust has a purpose. What is the purpose of this trust?”

“To provide the late Mrs. Dane with income throughout her life.”

“So when people talk about somebody having a trust fund, that's what this is.”

“Exactly.”

“How much money did this trust provide for her?”

“Well, it's rather unusual actually. It's typical to structure a trust in the following manner: You put a big pot of money into trust. That pot of money is known in the law as your
res
. In layman's terms, that's what you might call your principal. The trustees invest the principal. Some reasonable proportion of that income goes to the beneficiary of the trust, and the rest is plowed back into the principal. That way the principal grows, income grows, and, one hopes, over time the beneficiary will continue to maintain an income that keeps par with inflation or perhaps even outpaces it.”

“Okay.”

“But as I mentioned, Diana Dane's trust was unusual. It provided a fixed income. An annual check in the amount of thirty thousand dollars was to be written, irrespective of the size of the principal. Every decade, that amount was to be increased by three thousand dollars.”

“Why was it structured this way?”

“Bear in mind that in the early 1960s when the trust was established, thirty thousand dollars was a fairly significant income. But, that said . . . This is, of course, not written into the deed of trust—but my understanding from the previous trustee at Shearman & Pound is that Diana's grandfather didn't wish his granddaughter to live a life of complete ease. He was a sort of old school Puritan type who believed that an excess of spending led to bad character.”

“So the current income that Ms. Dane was getting from the trust?”

“Thirty-nine thousand dollars, payable each year on the first of January.”

“So what happens to all that money—the
res
, the principal, whatever you want to call it—when she dies?”

“According to the original trust instrument, the
res
or principal was at that time to pass to any natural issue of Ms. Dane.”

“Natural issue. That means children. Children she bore from her own body.”

“Exactly.”

“So if she died without having children?”

“The trust assets were to be liquidated and the proceeds would flow to her estate. As such, she could then dispose of it in her will in any way she chose.”

“And to your knowledge, Ms. Molina, does Mrs. Dane have any children, natural or otherwise?”

“I'm not aware of any.”

“Okay. So how big a trust is this? How much principal is there?”

“I don't have the exact figure in front of me . . .”

“Let me hand you a document that the clerk is marking as State's Exhibit 67.” Stash waited on the clerk, then handed a two-page photocopy to the trust lawyer. “Are you familiar with this document?”

Sharon Molina favored him with a large smile. “Yes I am.” Behind the smile was a certain amount of tension. I gather there had been a fair amount of legal wrangling on Stash's part in order to compel Ms. Molina to reveal the size of the trust. She, of course, knew what the ultimate outcome would be, but fighting Stash had given her firm the opportunity to bill the trust for a great many hours at four hundred bucks a pop. “This is an asset report as of September 29 of last year for the Testamentary Trust of Albert Goodwin van Blaricum, deceased, Diana Dane, beneficiary.”

“And referring to page two of this document, could you tell me the size of the trust?”

“As of September 29 of last year, the trust contained assets with a total value of twenty-eight million, four hundred and twelve thousand, two hundred and eleven dollars and ninety-one cents.”

There was a loud stirring in the courtroom as the size of the number sank in.

Stash stood there as though thunderstruck. “Twenty-eight
million
?”

A smile of amusement bordering on condescension. “Twenty-eight, as they say, and change.”

“Wow! All Mr. Dane has to do is murder his wife and he gets twenty-eight million bucks?”

Up I came from the chair. “Objection, Your Honor!”

“I'd like to answer that question, Judge,” Sharon Molina said. “I believe it bears on the matter at hand.”

“That's outrageous!” I said.

“No, I think I'd like to hear the answer,” Evola said.

“Murdering his wife would not be enough to secure him the money.” She showed us her fine teeth. “He'd have to get away with it.”

“No withering cross-examination?” Stash said to me after Sharon Molina's testimony. We had planned on lunching at Edna's Café, so we were coming down the stairs together.

If I'd asked too many questions about how the existence of “issue” would affect the trust, it might have tipped my hand about Blair Dane. Dane was on my witness list, but so far as Stash knew at this point, he was just some distant relative of Miles's—a character witness, maybe.

“No profit in it,” I said. “The harder I go at the trust, the worse it looks for Miles.”

Stash frowned and studied my face. I had a hunch he was getting a funny read from my expression, so I said, “Oh, about lunch . . . Something came up with another client that I need to tend to. I'm going to have to beg off on lunch. See you in court.”

I clapped him on the shoulder and headed toward my car.

It's traditional for prosecutors to wrap up their case by putting a member of the victim's family on the stand who can be safely predicted to bawl their heads off, leaving the jury with a sense of outrage and a thirst for vengeance. At the end of the afternoon, after a number of minor witnesses, I had noted that Diana's brother, Roger van Blaricum, was the only witness left on Stash's list, so I expected him to be called in the thirst-for-vengeance slot. This pleased me. He was such an irritating fellow, I felt he would do as much good for Miles's case as for the state's.

But apparently Stash, on meeting him in the flesh, came to the same conclusion that I did. After a brief, whispered conversation with his chief assistant, Stash stood, and said, “Your Honor, the state of Michigan rests.”

It was getting late, so Judge Evola recessed for the day. I walked across the street, fending off a dozen or so reporters, grabbed a sandwich at Kramer's Deli, then drove back to my office. Mrs. Fenton, as usual, had gone home at the stroke of five, so the entire office was dark. There was plenty of moonlight coming off the river to see where I was going, so I walked through the dim room and into my office.

I was fumbling for the light switch when a soft voice said, “Don't.”

That was when I saw him. Seated in a chair beside my desk was a man, his back to the river, face cloaked in darkness.

My heart was racing at top speed. “Who the hell are you?” I said, trying not to sound as petrified as I actually was.

“You know who I am.”

It only took me a moment. “Blair Dane,” I said softly.

“Yup.”

“Is all this darkness entirely necessary?”

“I don't see any need of you knowing what I look like.” His voice was high and clear, and there was a strangely unemotional quality, almost as though he'd been drugged. The most violent client I'd ever had, an enforcer for a Detroit drug gang back in the good old days, had the same tuneless sound to his speech. It was hard to put a finger on the precise reason, but the general effect of his speech was enormously frightening.

I shrugged, then walked around to my desk, hoping he wouldn't see how my hands were shaking. I tried to convince myself that this was an opportunity, that if he was intending to hurt me, he'd have already done it. “I need a cigarette,” I said, reaching into the drawer of my desk where I keep my .32. My heart kicked up another notch as I felt around. Plenty of rubber bands and pencil stubs. But the gun was gone.

“Save yourself the trouble, Mr. Dane.” I saw a silver gleam in Blair Dane's hand. “Smith & Wesson's my brand of smokes, too.”

“Look . . .” I said.

“No,
you
look.” Still in that same sleepy, drugged voice. “I am not a nice person. I want you to understand that nice and clear. I am a not nice person who is real, real tired of being in jail. With me so far?”

“Sure.”

“You are a guy who would like to drag me into your case somehow and accuse me of murder and try to send me back to Jackson. So let me say this just once. I did not kill my mother. And I will not go back to the Jackson State Penitentiary under any circumstances whatsoever. I just will not allow that to happen.”

“If you didn't do it, then what are you afraid of?”

No answer.

“I'm not out to frame you or blame you. All I want is to know what happened that night. I promise.”

I sensed that Blair Dane was amused—though he didn't make any sound, and his face was as dark and invisible as ever. “You tell me you need a pack of cancer sticks, and then you reach for a gun. If you were in my shoes, would you trust the promises of Charles Sloan, Esquire? Hm?”

The fear was starting to wear off, and now I was getting annoyed. “Hey. Give me a break. You broke into
my
office. What am I supposed to do, sit here and say,
Do you mind if I grab my pistol?”

“That's exactly my point, Mr. Sloan. Miles Dane has a gun to his head, and your job is to do whatever it takes to get that gun away before the state of Michigan pulls the trigger.”

“Okay,” I said. “What are you here for?”

He seemed to be thinking. “You've seen my rap sheet. Sheets, plural, I guess I should say. You think: Sure, violent guy, liar, career criminal, scumbag . . . why
wouldn't
he kill his mother? That's who he is, right?”

I didn't answer.

“All I'm saying is this: Comes a time when a guy like me has to face up to who he is. I'm not unlucky. I'm not put upon. I'm not conspired against. I'm not downtrodden. I've never been sent to jail for crimes I didn't commit. I made my life. I did what I did. I have been an unworthy piece of toilet scum for a very very long time. And during my last incarceration, I faced up to all of that for the first time. With the help of Jesus Christ, I will build a new Blair Dane. But if I go back to Jackson for something I didn't do, the new Blair Dane goes right down the crapper.”

“I can't defend your father if—”

“We're not talking about you. Or Miles Dane either. We're talking about me. What I'm telling you is, you have a nice daughter. Very attractive young girl. Full of promise and all that shit, I'm sure. It would be a tragedy for her, and for you, and for me, if you made any further efforts to have me snatched up by a bunch of redneck deputies and brought into the courtroom under duress to serve as your sacrificial lamb. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

“You're threatening my daughter.”

“Good. So we understand each other.”

“If you're really trying to build a new Blair Dane, Blair Dane the nice guy, the harmless citizen,” I said, “does this really take you in the right direction? Morally? Spiritually? Whatever?”

“I have prayed on that matter. My Savior, quite honestly, has not given me very firm or clear guidance. It's one of those deals where desperate times demand desperate measures, you know what I'm saying?”

“Maybe you ought to pray some more.”

“This isn't debate club,” Blair Dane said.

“No it isn't.” With that, I flipped the switch on my desk lamp.

In a way, I wished I'd left the light off. He was a scary guy. Even seated I could tell he was probably close to six-foot-four, and his shoulders were broad and thickly muscled—the benefits of the prison yard gym, no doubt. Though he was only a little more than thirty-one years old, his long hair had already gone very gray. His teeth were crooked and tobacco-stained. Across the back of one hand was a muddy green jailhouse tattoo that read GO DOWN SHOOTING, with a crude picture of a revolver inked beneath it. But what was most striking about him was a certain dead quality in his pale blue eyes, an unnatural stillness.

“I deserve a chance,” he said, standing. He looked down at me with his emotionless blue eyes. “Give me that chance.”

“All you have to do is sit there and answer a few questions,” I said.

“If that's your plan, then you better keep a good watch on that girl of yours. Lot of crazy, ruthless people out there.” He studied me with his dead eyes for a moment, then he slid out the door into the darkness.