John Hart - The King Of Lies

He was genteel, whereas my father had been aggressive, as mannered as Ezra had been bullish, but he was still full of it; I’d seen him in court enough times to know that his Holy Roller attitude never interfered with his shameless quest for high-dollar jury awards. His witnesses were well prepped and slick. The Ten Commandments did not hang on his office wall.

He was old Salisbury money, and I know that my father had hated that about him, but he was good, and my father had insisted on the best, especially where money was concerned.

“I would prefer to do this tomorrow,” he said without preamble, his eyes moving up from my scuffed hiking boots to my grass-stained blue jeans and the frayed collar of the shirt I refused to let die.

“It’s important, Clarence. I need to do this now. I’m sorry.”

He nodded. “Consider it a professional courtesy, then,” he said, and ushered me inside. I stepped into his marble foyer, hoping that there was no dog shit on my shoes. “Let’s go into my study.”

I followed him down a long hall, catching a glimpse through large French doors of the pool outside and the manicured gardens beyond. The place smelled of cigars, oiled leather, and old people; I was willing to bet that his maids wore uniforms.

His study was narrow but deep, with tall windows, more French doors, and floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Apparently, he was into antique guns, fresh-cut flowers, and the color blue. An eight-foot gold-filigree mirror hung behind his desk; in it I looked rumpled and small, which was probably intentional.

“I’m putting your father’s estate into probate tomorrow,” he told me as he closed double doors and pointed to a leather chair. I sat. He moved behind his desk but remained standing. He looked down at me from this position of assumed authority, reminding me of how much I hated lawyer bullshit. “So there’s no reason we can’t discuss the details now. For the record, however, I was going to call you this week to schedule a meeting.”

“Thank you for that,” I said, because I was expected to. Never mind the enormous fee he would collect as executor of Ezra’s estate. I steepled my fingers and concentrated on looking deferential, when what I wanted to do was put my feet on his desk.

“Also for the record, accept my condolences on your loss. I know that Barbara must be a great comfort. She comes from a fine family. A beautiful woman.”

For the record, I wished there was shit on my shoes. “Thank you,” I said.

“Although your father and I were often on opposite sides of the table, I had tremendous respect for his accomplishments. He was a fine attorney.” He eyed me from his great height. “Something to aspire to,” he concluded meaningfully.

“I don’t want to take any more of your time than necessary,” I reminded him.

“Yes, of course. To business, then. Your father’s estate was sizable.”

“How sizable?” I interrupted. Ezra had been secretive about his finances. I knew very little about it.

“Sizable,” Hambly reiterated. I looked blank and waited. Once wills are put into probate, they become public record. There was no reason for reticence.

Hambly grudgingly conceded. “Roughly forty million dollars,” he said.

I almost fell out of my chair-literally. I would have guessed six or seven million at the most.

“In addition to his skills as a lawyer,” Hambly continued, “he was an adept investor. Other than the house and the building on lawyers’ row, it’s all in liquid securities.”

“Forty million dollars,” I said.

“A little over, actually.” Hambly met my eyes and, to his credit, kept his face neutral. He’d been born rich, yet would never see forty million dollars. It had to gall him, and I suddenly realized that this was another reason my father had gone to Clarence Hambly. I almost smiled, but then I thought of Jean and the miserable house she lived in. I smelled stale pizza and pictured her face in the window of her beaten-down car, the way she’d heaved herself up the steps of Glena Werster’s stone monument to greed and ego. At least that will change, I thought.

“And?” I asked.

“The house and the building go to you outright. Ten million dollars will fund the Ezra Pickens Charitable Foundation. You will have a seat on the board. Fifteen million dollars goes into trust for you. Taxes take the rest.”

I was stunned. “What about Jean?” I asked.

“Jean gets nothing,” Hambly stated, then sniffed loudly.

I came out of my chair. “Nothing?” I repeated.

“Sit down, please.”

I complied because I lacked the strength to stand.

“You know how your father felt. Women have no business dealing with money or finances. It might be imprudent to tell you this, but your father changed the will after Alex Shiften came on the scene. Originally, he planned for two million to go into trust for Jean, to be managed by this firm or by her husband, should she marry. But with Alex in the picture… You know how your father felt.”

“Did he know that they were sleeping together?” I asked.

“He suspected.”

“And so he cut her out of the will.”

“Basically.”

“Was Jean aware of this?”

Hambly shrugged but didn’t answer the question. “People do funny things with their money, Work. They use it for their own reasons.”

I felt an electric tingle as I realized Hambly wasn’t talking about Jean anymore. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

“The trust for you,” Hambly began, finally taking his seat.

“What about it?”

“You will have full, unfettered use of the income it generates until age sixty. Conservatively invested, it should provide at least a million dollars a year. At sixty, you get it all.”

“But?” I sensed a catch.

“There are certain requirements.”

“Such as?”

“You are required to be actively engaged in the practice of law until such time.”

“What?”

“This point is exquisitely clear, Work. Your father felt it important that you carry on the practice, that you maintain your place in society and in the profession. He was concerned that if he just left you the money, you might do something imprudent.”

“Like be happy?”

Hambly ignored my sarcasm and the raw, naked emotion that must have been in my voice. Even from the grave, my father was trying to dictate the terms of my life, to manipulate me. “He was not specific in that regard,” Hambly said. “But he was very specific in others. This firm will act as trustee. It will be up to us”-he gave me a thin smile-“up to me, actually, to determine whether or not you are actively engaged in the practice of law. One of the criteria, for instance, is that you bill at least twenty thousand dollars a month, adjusted for inflation, of course.”

“I don’t bill half that now and you know it.”

“Yes.” Another smile. “Your father thought this might prove to motivate you.”

“Un-fucking-believable,” I said, anger finally finding a voice.

Hambly rose to his full height and leaned forward, hands splayed on his desk. “Let me make one thing clear, Mr. Pickens. I will not tolerate profanity in this house. Is that understood?”

“Yes,” I said through clenched teeth. “I understand. What else?”

“Any year that you do not satisfy the requirements of the trust document, the income from the trust will go to the Ezra Pickens Foundation. If in two of any five years you fail to meet the requirements of the trust document, the trust will terminate and the full corpus of the trust will transfer irrevocably to the foundation. However, when you reach age sixty, should you comply fully, the entire balance becomes yours to do with as you please. I will provide you with copies of all documents, of course.”