Gray Mountain, Page 29

  “Would you like some coffee?”

  “No.”

  “Then we’d better go.”

  They walked down the hall to the front conference room, where Mattie was waiting. At precisely 2:00 p.m., Agents Banahan, Frohmeyer, and Zimmer arrived in a rush and with such grim determination it seemed as if they might shoot first and ask questions later. Frohmeyer had led the troops during the raid on Donovan’s office. Zimmer had been one of his gofers. Banahan had stopped by earlier. After quick introductions were made, they squared off, with Jeff sitting between Mattie and Samantha on one side and the government on the other. Annette held one end of the table and turned on a recorder.

  Mattie again asked if Jeff was the subject of an investigation by the FBI, the U.S. Attorney, any other federal law enforcement agency, or anyone working for the Department of Justice. Frohmeyer assured her he was not.

  Frohmeyer took charge and spent a few minutes digging through Jeff’s background. Samantha took notes. After their rather intimate weekend, in which he had shared so much, she learned nothing new. Frohmeyer probed his relationship with his deceased brother. How long had he worked for him? What did he do? How much was he paid? As coached by Mattie and Annette, Jeff gave succinct answers and never offered anything extra.

  Lying to an FBI agent is a crime in itself, regardless of where or how the interrogation takes place. Whatever you do, Mattie had said repeatedly, do not lie.

  Like his brother, Jeff had seemed perfectly willing to lie if it would help the cause. He assumed the bad guys—the coal companies and now the government—would cut corners and cheat and do whatever to win. If they played dirty, why couldn’t he? Because, Mattie had repeated, you can be sent to prison. The coal companies and their lawyers cannot.

  Working from scripted notes, Frohmeyer finally got around to the important matters. He explained that the computers seized by the FBI one week ago on December 1 had been tampered with. The hard drives had been replaced. Did Jeff know anything about that?

  Mattie snapped, “Don’t answer that.” She explained to Frohmeyer that she had spoken with the U.S. Attorney, and that it was clear that Donovan died without knowing that he was the subject of a new investigation. He had not been informed; there was nothing in writing. Therefore, with respect to his office files and records, any actions taken by his employees after his death were not done to impede an investigation.

  Off the record, Jeff’s version was that he removed the hard drives from the office and home computers and burned them. Samantha suspected, though, that they still existed. Not that it mattered. Jeff had assured her that there was nothing important, relative to Krull Mining, to be found in any of Donovan’s computers.

  And I know where the records are, Samantha thought to herself, almost in disbelief.

  The fact that Mattie had gone to the U.S. Attorney irritated Frohmeyer. She didn’t care. They haggled for a while over the questioning, and it became obvious who was in control, at least in this meeting. If Mattie told Jeff not to answer, Frohmeyer got nothing. He told the story of a bunch of records that disappeared from the headquarters of Krull Mining near Harlan, Kentucky, and asked Jeff if he knew anything about it. Jeff shrugged and shook his head no before Mattie could say, “Don’t answer that.”

  “Do you plead the Fifth Amendment?” Frohmeyer asked in frustration.

  “He’s not under oath,” Mattie shot back, as if Frohmeyer was stupid.

  Samantha had to confess, at least to herself, that she was thoroughly enjoying the conflict. The FBI with all its power on one side. Jeff, their client, who was certainly guilty of something, on the other side, heavily protected by legal talent and winning, for the moment.

  “I guess we’re wasting our time,” Frohmeyer said, throwing up his hands. “Thanks for the hospitality. I’m sure we’ll be back.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Mattie said. “And no contact with my client unless I’m notified, got it?”

  “We’ll see,” Frohmeyer said like a jerk as he kicked back his chair and stood. Banahan and Zimmer marched out with him.

  An hour later, Samantha, Mattie, and Jeff were sitting in the back row in the main courtroom, waiting on the judge who would oversee the probate of Donovan’s estate. Court was not in session and a handful of lawyers milled about the bench, swapping jokes with the clerks.

  Jeff said quietly, “I talked to our experts this morning. So far, they’ve found no evidence of anyone tampering with Donovan’s Cessna. The crash was caused by sudden engine failure, and the engine quit because the flow of fuel was cut off. The tank was full—we always filled up in Charleston because it’s cheaper there. The miracle is that the plane did not burst into flames and burn a hole in the ground.”

  “How did the fuel get cut off?” Mattie asked.

  “That’s the big question. If you believe it was sabotage, then there’s one real strong theory. There’s a fuel line that runs from the fuel pump to the carburetor, where it’s attached by what’s called a B nut. If the B nut is deliberately loosened, the engine will start up just fine and operate smoothly until the vibration causes the B nut to slowly unscrew itself. The fuel line will come loose and engine failure is imminent. The engine will sputter and quickly shut down completely. Happens very fast with no warning, no alarm, and it’s impossible to restart it. If a pilot is staring at his fuel gauge, which is something we glance at only periodically, then he might notice a sudden drop in fuel pressure at about the same time the engine begins to die. They make a big deal out of the fact that Donovan did not make a distress call. That’s nonsense. Think about it. You’re flying along at night and suddenly your engine quits. You have a few seconds to react, but it’s total panic. You try to restart the engine, but that doesn’t work. You’re thinking about ten things at once, but the last thing you’re thinking about is calling for help. How the hell is anyone going to help?”

  “How easy is it to tamper with the B nut?” Samantha asked.

  “It’s not difficult if you know what you’re doing. The trick is to do it without getting caught. You would have to wait until dark, sneak onto the tie-down area of the ramp, remove the cowling that covers the engine, use a flashlight and a wrench, and do your business. One expert said it can be done in about twenty minutes. On the night in question, there were seventeen other small aircraft tied down in the same area, but there was almost no traffic that night. The ramp was very quiet. We’ve checked the surveillance videos from the general aviation terminal and found nothing. We’ve talked to the ramp guys on duty that night, and they saw nothing. We’ve checked the maintenance records with the mechanic in Roanoke, and of course everything was working fine when he signed off on the last inspection.”

  “How badly was the engine damaged?” asked Mattie.

  “It’s a mess. Evidently, the Cessna clipped some trees. It looks like Donovan was trying to land on a county highway—he might have seen the headlights of a car, but who knows—and when he hit the trees the plane pitched forward and landed nose first. The engine was smashed and it’s impossible to determine the position of the B nut. It’s fairly easy to conclude that the fuel was cut off, but beyond that there aren’t many clues.”

  The judge entered the courtroom and assumed the bench. He scanned the audience and said something to a clerk.

  “What’s next?” Samantha whispered.

  “We’ll keep digging,” Jeff said, but with little confidence.

  The judge looked toward the rear of the courtroom and said, “Ms. Wyatt.”

  Mattie introduced Jeff to His Honor, who politely passed along his condolences and said nice things about Donovan. Jeff thanked him as Mattie began producing orders for the judge to sign. The judge took his time reading the will and commented on various provisions. He and Mattie discussed the strategy of the estate hiring a lawyer to pursue the Tate appeal. Jeff was quizzed about Donovan’s financial status, his assets and debts.

  After an hour, all orders were signed and the estate was officially opened.
Mattie stayed on to handle another matter, but Jeff was dismissed. As he walked back to the office with Samantha, he said, “I’m disappearing for a few weeks, so use the prepaid phone.”

  “Anyplace in particular?”

  “No.”

  “No surprise there. I’m leaving myself, for the holidays, Washington and then New York. I guess I won’t be seeing you for a while.”

  “So, is this Merry Christmas and Happy New Year?”

  “I suppose so. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.”

  He stopped and quickly pecked her on the cheek. “Same to you.” He turned onto a side street and hurried away, as if someone might be trailing him.

  The funeral for Francine Crump was held at 11:00 a.m. Wednesday, in a Holiness church deep in the hollows. Samantha never considered attending the service. Annette strongly advised against it, since it was likely they would pull out the snakes and start dancing. Samantha took this seriously. Annette later admitted she was exaggerating. There were no known snake-handling congregations still practicing in Virginia, she explained. “All the members are dead.”

  But a nest of angry rattlers could not have been worse than the mob of Crumps that showed up later in the day for a showdown with “Missus Kofer.” They descended upon the clinic with a show of force unlike any Mattie had ever seen: the five siblings, some of their current spouses, a few of their large children, and a few assorted blood relatives.

  Their beloved mother was dead, and it was time to split the money.

  Mattie took charge and told most of them to leave. Only the five siblings would be allowed to take part in the meeting; the rest could go sit in their trucks. She and Annette herded them into a conference room, and when they were seated Samantha walked in and joined them. Collectively, they were a mess. They had just buried their mother. They were terrified they might lose the family land and whatever money that meant, and they were bitter at the lawyers for facilitating this. They were also getting pestered by relatives who’d heard rumors of coal money. They were away from home and missing work. And, as Samantha suspected, they had been fighting amongst themselves.

  She began by explaining that no lawyer at the clinic had prepared another will for their mother; indeed, no one had heard a word from Francine since the last family meeting at that very table some nine days earlier. If Francine told them otherwise, then it simply wasn’t true. Nor did Samantha know of any other lawyer in town who might have prepared a new will. Mattie explained that it was customary, though by no means obligatory, for one lawyer to call another when a different will is prepared. At any rate, as far as they knew, the will signed by Francine two months earlier was her last will and testament.

  They listened and fumed, barely able to control their loathing for the lawyers. As Samantha wound down, she expected a torrent of abuse, probably from all five. Instead, there was a long pause. Jonah, the oldest at sixty-one, finally said, “Momma destroyed the will.”

  Samantha had no response. Annette frowned as her mind raced back to the old Virginia statutes regarding lost and destroyed wills. Mattie was impressed at the cleverness of their scheme and could barely suppress a grin.

  Jonah went on, “I’m sure you have a copy of the will, but, as I understand things, when she destroyed the original the copy became useless. That right?”

  Mattie nodded along, acknowledging the obvious fact that Jonah had paid for some quick legal advice. And why would he pay a lawyer for advice and not for a new will? Because Francine wouldn’t agree to a new will. “How do you know she destroyed it?” she asked.

  Euna Faye said, “She told me last week.”

  Irma said, “Told me too. Said she burned it in the fireplace.”

  DeLoss added, “And we’ve looked everywhere and can’t find it.”

  It was all very well rehearsed, and as long as the five stuck together, the story would hold up. On cue, Lonnie asked, “And so if there’s no will, then we get the land in five equal shares, right?”

  “I suppose,” Mattie said. “I’m not sure what position the Mountain Trust will take.”

  Jonah growled, “You tell the Mountain Trust to get lost, you hear? Hell, they never knew about our property until y’all brought ’em in. This is our family land, always has been.”

  His four siblings agreed wholeheartedly.

  In a flash, Samantha switched teams. If Francine had in fact destroyed the will, or if these five were lying and there was no way to prove otherwise, then give them the damned eighty acres and say good-bye. The last thing she wanted was a will contest between the Crumps and the Mountain Trust, with her as the star witness taking flak from both sides. She never wanted to see these people again.

  Nor did Annette and Mattie. They switched too, with Mattie saying, “Look, folks, we as lawyers will not try and probate the will. That’s not our job. I doubt seriously if the Mountain Trust wants to get bogged down in a protracted will contest. The legal fees will cost more than the land is worth. If there’s no will, then there’s no will. Y’all need to find a lawyer who’ll open the estate and get an administrator appointed.”

  “Do y’all do that?” Jonah asked.

  All three lawyers recoiled in horror at the notion of representing these people. Annette managed to speak first, “Oh, no, we can’t because we prepared the will.”

  “But it’s pretty routine stuff,” Mattie added quickly. “Almost any lawyer along Main Street can do it.”

  Euna Faye actually smiled and said, “Well, thanks.”

  Lonnie asked, “And we split it five ways, right?”

  Mattie said, “That’s the law, but you need to check with your lawyer.” Lonnie was shifty-eyed to begin with, and he was already looking around the room. They would be fighting before they left Brady. And there were relatives waiting outside, ready to pounce on all that coal money.

  They left in peace, and when the front door closed behind the last one, the three lawyers felt like celebrating. They locked the door, kicked off their shoes, and piled into the conference room for a late afternoon sip of wine and a lot of laughs. Annette attempted to describe the scene of the first one home, rummaging through the house in a desperate search for that damned will. Then the second, then the third. Their mother was on the slab at the funeral home and they were knocking over furniture and dumping out drawers in a frantic search. If they found it, they certainly burned it.

  Not one of the three lawyers believed Francine actually destroyed her will.

  And they were right. The original arrived in the mail the following day, with a note from Francine asking Samantha to please protect it.

  The Crumps would be back after all.

  30

  For the third year in a row, Karen Kofer spent Christmas in New York City with her daughter. She had a close friend from college whose third husband was an aging industrialist, now sidelined by dementia and tucked away in a plush retirement home in Great Neck. Their rambling apartment on Fifth Avenue overlooked Central Park and was practically deserted. Karen was given her own suite for the week and treated like a queen. Samantha was offered one too, but chose instead to stay with Blythe in their apartment in SoHo. The lease expired on December 31, and she needed to pack her things and make arrangements to store furniture. Blythe, still hanging on at the world’s fourth-largest law firm, was moving in with two friends in Chelsea.

  After three months in Brady, Samantha felt liberated in the city. She shopped with her mother in midtown, battling the crowds but enjoying the frenetic energy. She had late afternoon drinks with friends in all the right, trendy bars, and, while enjoying the scene, found herself bored with the conversation. Careers, real estate, and the Great Recession. Karen sprang for two tickets to a Broadway musical, a rage that was nothing more than a made-for-tourists rip-off. They left at intermission and got a table at Orso. Samantha had brunch with an old Georgetown pal at Balthazar, where the friend almost squealed as she pointed out a famous TV actor Samantha had never seen nor heard of. She took long, solitary walks
through lower Manhattan. Christmas dinner was a feast at the Fifth Avenue apartment with a bunch of strangers, though after a lot of wine the conversation loosened up and an ordeal became a riot that went on for hours. Samantha slept in a spare bedroom, one bigger than her apartment, and woke up with a mild hangover. A uniformed maid brought her orange juice, coffee, and ibuprofen. She had lunch with Henry, who had been pestering her, and realized they had nothing in common. He was assuming she would be back in the city in the near future and was eager to rekindle something. She tried to explain that she wasn’t sure when she would return. There was no job waiting for her, and now no apartment. Her future was uncertain, as was his. He’d given up on acting and was considering an entry into the exciting world of hedge fund management. An odd choice these days, she thought. Aren’t those guys bleeding cash and dodging indictments? His undergraduate degree from Cornell was in Arabic. He was headed to nowhere and she would not waste another minute with him.

  Two days after Christmas, she was sitting in a coffee bar in SoHo when a phone buzzed. At first she didn’t recognize the noise deep in her purse, then realized it was the prepaid phone Jeff had given her. She found it just in time and said hello. “Happy New Year,” he said. “Where are you?”

  “Same to you. I’m in the city. Where are you?”

  “In the city. I’d like to see you. Got time for some coffee?”

  For a moment, she thought he was joking. She couldn’t imagine Jeff Gray walking the streets of Manhattan, but then, why not? The city attracted all types from everywhere. “Sure, in fact I’m having coffee right now. Alone.”

  “What’s the address?”

  While she waited, she became amused at her thought process. Her initial reaction was one of surprise, which was immediately followed by one of pure lust. How could she get him into her apartment and avoid Blythe? Not that Blythe would really care, but she didn’t want a lot of questions. Where was he staying? A nice hotel; that would work. Was he alone? Or sharing a room with a friend?