Richard Patterson - Fall from Grace

Looking up, Adam asked, “Is this everything?”

“Absolutely.” Seeley fidgeted in his chair. “You had questions about the will?”

Adam considered his aims in coming here. One was to gauge Seeley’s skills as a lawyer, another to determine the facts behind the will, still another to determine how formidable Seeley might be in opposing his mother’s challenge. None required excessive courtesy. “A few,” he answered. “You took the gifts to Carla Pacelli and Jenny Leigh out of the estate and put them into trusts. Aren’t there questions under Sullivan v. Burkin about whether such a trust is valid? And, if it isn’t, whether this device exposes the gifts to massive estate tax?”

As Adam had intended, Seeley looked surprised. In a different tone, he said, “I took Sullivan into account. I believe the will and trusts can hold up.”

Adam remained expressionless. “Then you’ve tried this before.”

“Not personally, no.”

“Can I ask how many wills you’ve drafted?”

“A few.”

“More than one?”

“I haven’t counted,” Seeley replied, then leaned forward to fix Adam with a look of deep sincerity. “I did my best to carry out your dad’s wishes. Whatever his reason for these bequests, or for choosing me as his lawyer, I was honored to represent him. From all I knew of him, and all that I experienced, Benjamin Blaine was a truly great man.”

“He certainly left a hole,” Adam replied. “Including in my mother’s finances. You’re aware that Matthew Thomson was his lawyer for almost forty years.”

“He told me that.” Seeley’s tone grew firmer. “Obviously, someone helped him draft his prior will, and the postnuptial agreement with your mother.”

“Did he tell you why he’d decided to change lawyers?”

Seeley’s face closed. Cautiously, he said, “I think we’re getting into areas covered by the attorney-client privilege.”

“I’m sure we are,” Adam went on. “Just as I’m sure that as executor, I stand in my father’s place. I’m not only the son of a great man but effectively your client. Given that my father is dead, I’m the Blaine you have to please.”

Seeley placed his palms flat on the desk. “What he said,” he answered stiffly, “and what I told the police, is that he wanted to start fresh. New estate plan, new lawyer. Then he told me what he wanted.”

“The validity of which depends on the postnup. Did you call Matthew Thomson for insight into whether it would hold up?”

Once again, Seeley looked off-balance. Crossing his arms, he said, “I told your father that your mom was certain to challenge the will, and that I wanted Matthew’s advice. He instructed me not to contact anyone and said that it was my job to make this will ironclad. He wasn’t the kind of man you challenge.”

“Did he also mention that he was dying?”

Seeley stared at him. “Of what?”

“Brain cancer.” Adam waved at the time sheets. “According to these, he came to you four months ago with cancer eating his brain. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

“About what?”

“Whether this will was my father speaking or the cancer. Or, for that matter, Carla Pacelli.”

Seeley sat straighter. “I only met your father three times, the last when he signed the will and trust documents. But he seemed sharp, determined, and very clear on what he wanted and who he meant to benefit. I didn’t know he was dying, and he sure as hell didn’t seem deranged. So my job as a lawyer was to make his will stand up in court. Period.”

“Was anyone with him at these meetings?”

Seeley fidgeted with his pen. “Do you mean Carla Pacelli?”

Adam shrugged. “Or Jenny Leigh.”

“Neither.”

“Did you ever speak to Carla or Jenny?”

“No.” Seeley seemed to have recovered his poise. “In fact, your father instructed me not to tell any of the beneficiaries that he was leaving them money. First and foremost, that meant Carla Pacelli.”

Surprised, Adam said sharply, “That makes no sense to me. Why would he keep a bequest worth at least ten million dollars secret from his mistress?”

“I don’t know that he did,” Seeley said slowly. “All I can tell you is that he made a joke of it with me. Something about liking it when women loved him for himself.”

What must have happened came to Adam suddenly-if everyone thought the gift to Carla was a surprise, her hand in seeking Ben Blaine’s money would remain hidden. Someone-maybe Carla, maybe his father-had been more clever than Seeley knew. “So much to love,” Adam said. “So many to love him. Did he explain why he was showering his largesse on these two women?”

“No.” Seeley’s shrug came with a knowing look. “I live here, so I’d started hearing rumors about him and Carla. But that was all. Other than that he wanted to make her his principal beneficiary, he never said a word about her-not their relationship or why he was leaving her money. Zero.”

“Did he ever say she’d asked for anything?”

“Never.” Seeley paused. “In the will he gives the reasons for his bequest to Jenny: to help her succeed as a writer. He even had me put in that sentence about you. But all he did was leave Carla millions of dollars. He never said why, and I never asked.” He smiled sheepishly. “I mean, that would have been a stupid question, right-a woman who looks like that? With all respect to your mother.”

“In other words,” Adam said evenly, “you figured the privilege of sleeping with Carla Pacelli was worth millions of dollars. Sounds reasonable to me. Especially given my father’s scant experience with women.”

“Maybe he’d lost his mind, all right? I know you’d like to think so. But he didn’t seem like a man who’d be led around by anyone or anything-including his own dick, if you’ll excuse my frankness. So maybe it’s possible your father really loved her.”

“That would be a novelty,” Adam replied. “Didn’t you think his bequest to me-‘To Adam, who has the courage to hate’-was also a little bizarre?”

Seeley seemed to consider this. Then he said, “Only until I met you.”

“Meaning…”

“That you seem so much like him.” Seeley paused. “You did hate your father, didn’t you? And you impress me as a very determined man.”

Seeley was sharper than Adam had thought. Softly, he replied, “You have no idea.”

For a moment, Seeley looked away. “While we’re on the subject,” Adam continued, “why did he leave me an album of old photographs from Southeast Asia? He must have had a reason, however strange.”

In profile, Seeley nodded. “I assume so. But he never said.”

Adam waited for the lawyer to meet his eyes again. “So let’s sum this up,” he said succinctly. “My father canned his longtime lawyer, changed his will entirely, disinherited his wife and oldest son, gave millions to his thirtysomething girlfriend, and left me-who despised him-a hundred thousand dollars and a bunch of yellowed photographs of a trip I wasn’t alive for and don’t give a damn about. But none of that struck you as peculiar.”

For a moment, Seeley took him in. “Maybe it’s not what I’d have done, or you’d have done. But I’ve got no doubt whatsoever that Benjamin Blaine knew exactly what he was doing.”

A few hours ago, Adam realized, Dr. Lee Zell had spoken of his father in almost the same words. “Anyhow,” Seeley continued, “he signed those documents in the presence of two witnesses-my receptionist and my legal assistant, who doubles as my wife. You can step outside and talk to them both. They can tell you what he was like.”

“Not really.”

“They can for the purposes of the will. They spent a half hour with your dad, waiting for the accountant next door to free up and notarize his signature. He was completely charming-telling stories about the places he’d been and the people he’d met. All of us found him fascinating-”