John Lescroart - The Mercy Rule

‘Yes, the estate.’ Leland kept a sneer off his face, but Graham heard it. ‘We were surprised to learn of the fifty thousand dollars, Graham. How did Sal get that kind of money? Surely not selling fish. That’s what I’d be interested to know.’

‘It’s not coming to any of us, so what difference does it make?’

‘What are you talking about, not coming to us?’ This was George. He spoke quietly, but nobody was fooled. ‘It gets divided three ways if there’s no will. I looked it up. And there wasn’t a will, was there?’

Graham had resolved to stay calm. He picked up one of the cookies and took a bite to slow himself down. ‘Not as such, but there-’

‘Excuse me,’ Leland interrupted mildly, ‘but if there was no will, Graham, how is it that you are the executor?’

Debra interrupted him . ‘I read it was wrapped.’ Debra was holding her husband’s hand out on the table. Living in the shadow of her stunning, social-climbing mother, she had long ago decided not to compete and now, at twenty-nine, was not so much unattractive as unadorned. She wore no makeup of any kind. Her hair had once shone like Helen’s, but she’d elected not to dye it, and now it was a drab strawberry-blond. She was also five months pregnant and her face had broken out. ‘What does that mean, wrapped? Where did Sal get wrapped bills? And what were you planning to do with the baseball cards? Steal them too?’

Graham nodded across the table at his sister. ‘Yeah, Deb. I was going to steal them. I was trying to screw everybody.’

‘Just like usual,’ George said.

Graham turned down the table, a dangerous smile in place. ‘Fuck you.’

Leland tapped the table for order. ‘Now, now. Let’s keep it civil, can we?’

‘Sure,’ Graham said. His hand was shaking and the coffee threatened to overspill the rim of his cup. He carefully put it down in the saucer. ‘You know, guys, I haven’t had my all-time best day, spending it as I did in jail accused of murdering my father. Then I come here and we play dump on Graham. But I’ll tell you what. You can all go to hell. I don’t need this abuse.’

From the time he’d been a child, when Graham got angry enough, tears came to his eyes. He wasn’t going to have that happen now, or at least he wasn’t going to let his siblings see it. Trying to maintain some dignity, though, he wasn’t about to bolt from the table either. Focusing on the ceiling, he was blinking hard, pushing back his chair, when his mother suddenly spoke sharply, stopping him.

‘For God’s sake. Children, stop. Sit down, Graham! Please. Sit down. You’re right. We’re all just a little overwrought. You know that. It’s been a very emotional time.’

An uneasy silence.

Leland took over again, the voice of reason. ‘Your mother’s right, all of you. It’s been a difficult week all around.’ He cast harsh glances at Debra and George, shutting them up. ‘No one means to accuse you of anything, Graham. But we have some questions and I’m sure that you have answers. We don’t mean to grill you, but they do seem important, don’t they?’

Graham had moved back up to the table. He’d folded his hands in front of him. He was unaware of it, but his knuckles burned white from the pressure. ‘You know, Leland, frankly, they don’t. Frankly,’ he repeated, ‘I can’t understand why Georgie here-’

‘George,’ his younger brother corrected him.

‘Sure,’ Graham said. ‘George. Why George here cares at all about fifty thousand dollars, or even a third of it, which he’s not going to get anyway because Dad wanted it to go to someone else.’

‘Well, that’s one of the questions,’ Leland retorted. ‘Who did your father want this money to go to?’

Down at his end George did his Leland impression, slapping the table three times. ‘First, I think I’d rather talk about why I shouldn’t care about seventeen thousand dollars. That’s a lot of money.’

Graham threw him a withering look. ‘What do you make a year, George – one thirty, one fifty?’

‘What difference does that make?’

‘It makes a difference how much you need seventeen thousand dollars.’

‘Yeah, that’s the way you think, all right, but it’s not a question of how much I need it. That’s completely irrelevant. The issue is that it’s mine, whether I need it or not.’

Graham had that dangerous smile again. ‘You know, Georgie, you’re turning into a fine banker. And it’s not yours anyway.’

Petulantly, his sister spoke up again. ‘Well, regardless of George, we need it. It’s a lot of money to us.’

Next to Debra, Brendan stiffened. If there was one thing Graham knew about Debra’s husband – and he knew more than he wanted to – it was that Brendan didn’t want or need anybody’s help, financial or otherwise, ever. He was a man and he did it his way, on his own, no matter what. ‘We’re doing all right,’ he insisted. ‘We don’t need it.’

‘We do too , Bren!’

‘Don’t argue with me,’ McCoury said. He appeared to be fighting the urge to strike her.

But Leland wasn’t going to referee marital disputes. He tapped the table again. ‘Excuse me, Debra. I don’t think Graham has given us Sal’s intentions here regarding this money.’

‘Excuse me , Leland’ – George again, the mimic – ‘but Sal’s intentions don’t matter. If he didn’t write a will, Graham can do whatever he wants with his third, but Debra and I get ours. That’s the law and he knows it.’

Outside, the sun had gone down and a mother-of-pearl sky was fast going dark. Graham’s patience – not his strong suit to begin with – was at an end. He couldn’t imagine that his father’s money would make even the slightest difference to George’s life. Debra’s, perhaps, for a short time.

His eyes swept the table quickly. This was his nuclear family. More, after Sal’s death, it was every relative he knew on earth, and he felt no connection to any of them.

How had they all come to this? he wondered. What had made the family go so wrong?

Maybe there had never been any hope for them, he thought. Maybe the incompatibility ran so deep, it was structural.

For as long as he could remember, the conflict between Sal and Helen had been apparent. When he’d been very young, Graham hadn’t been able to understand the causes of it, but even to the young boy there had been an obvious discrepancy simply in the way his mother and father were - in their very natures, it seemed – fundamental problems that went deeper than mere differences in the way they did things.

Sal was a second-generation Italian who grew up speaking the language in his home. He loved working with his hands, painting, fixing things, drinking, fishing, being with the guys, telling dirty jokes, and laughing out loud. He played party songs on his accordion. Darkly handsome with a wicked smile, Sal exuded physical confidence. He hugged even his male friends, kissed his wife in public, pinched her ass from time to time.

He was also a talented athlete. Like his son Graham after him, he had been signed to play baseball out of college; the Baltimore Orioles had given him a signing bonus of $35,000. Like his son – as with the great majority of players he never made the big leagues. At Helen’s urging, though, he’d saved his bonus, and had used it to buy his boat.

Helen had been raised on a different cultural plane. Her parents, Richard and Elizabeth (emphatically not Dick and Betsy) Raessler, were well-known jewelers. Helen had gone to Town School, the most prestigious private school in the city. She grew up in fine restaurants, at the opera, theater, symphonies, museums. She was a fine equestrienne – British style – and an outstanding cook.