Facing A Twisted Judgment Read online

  FACING A TWISTED JUDGMENT

  Copyright © 2018 by Kathleen McGillick

  Editor: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing

  Interior Design & Formatting by: Champagne Book Design

  Proofreading: Judy Zweifel Judy’s Proofreading

  Cover Art: Jay Aheer of Simply Defined Art

  KJRM Publishing LLC

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author/publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the author publisher.

  The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks, and word marks mentioned in this book. All possibly trademarked names are honored by italics and no infringement is intended. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without the permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is originally published. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any references to historical or actual events, locales, business establishments, places or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  OTHER BOOKS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  In memory of my grandparents Florence and William

  My Grandmother, my partner in crime, who always had my back and

  whom I credit I am today because of her.

  Dedicated to my son Mark-Michael and grandchildren Rinoa and Jude

  Alex

  Courtrooms were places where people came to request the justice they thought they deserved. Very few found it. Judges were thought to be people who cared about the law and society. Very few did. I knew for a fact that courtrooms were merely a place where the drama of people’s lives played out and the more skillful storyteller won.

  I watched as everyone in the courtroom milled about, making idle conversation. Marley Bennington, Samantha’s younger sister, stood with her lawyer and laughed as if he had told her the world’s funniest joke. She probably was high on cocaine despite her protests of being six months sober. If she thought that talking nonstop as well as continually wiping her nose while fidgeting didn’t give it away, well then, she was more delusional than I thought.

  Ashton Bennington, Samantha’s older brother, was a man who kept his emotions in check all the time. He studied people and then played with their weakness. Waiting for the judge to return, he sat motionless at the counsel table, almost bored.

  Neither Marley’s attorney nor Ashton’s attorney seemed worried they would lose, and I was confident I would win Samantha’s case. Samantha, their beleaguered sister, was my client and in the absolute right in this case. The facts were clear, and if I lost any part of this case, I sure as hell would be one incompetent lawyer.

  “All rise. The court is called to order in the matter of Ronald Bennington,” the bailiff announced.

  The judge, a man in his thirties with a Sweeney Todd shock of white hair by his forehead, took his seat behind the high bench and waved everyone to be seated.

  “I have an order prepared in the matter. For the sake of judicial economy, I’ll surmise the proceeding and then distribute the order. This case came before this court on the petition of Marley Bennington and Ashton Bennington to contest certain property that was bequeathed to Samantha Bennington by Ronald Bennington. The basis of the claim was that Ronald Bennington was mentally incompetent at the time the estate was planned and the will executed.

  “All parties who wished to present evidence were given an opportunity to testify and submit relevant documents for the court to consider. Each party, through counsel, was permitted a thorough cross-examination of that evidence. All evidence on direct and cross was taken into consideration when I made my determination.

  “Based on the facts and evidence before me, it is ordered, adjudged, and decreed that Samantha Bennington is awarded the following property: the entire art collection of Ronald Bennington consisting of eight paintings set forth in the will. For the purpose of this order, they are set out as two Picassos, one Matisse, one Freud, one Seurat, one Bacon, one Campendonk, and one Munch with an aggregate value of one hundred thirty million dollars. In addition, I further award her the improved real estate property in the deed book on page 1,946 and page 2,002, as set forth in the Office of the Clerk and Recorder and reflected in the last will and testament of Ronald Bennington. For purposes of this order, it is 90 Magna Drive, Denver, Colorado, and that shall pass in fee simple with no liens or encumbrances attached to the property.

  “The contest clause is found to be valid, and as such, Marley and Ashton Bennington are stripped of any bequests in the will for having contested the will. My clerk will prepare the estate deed and deliver it to Ms. Bennington.”

  He leaned back in his red leather chair, removed his glasses, and looked to each side of the room.

  “That is my order,” he stated. He then signed a package of papers in front of him and handed them to his clerk.

  “No fucking way,” Marley shouted and stood. “No fucking way are you taking that money away from me. And the Campendonk? Everyone knows that the Campendonk is mine. And the Freud. No, I refuse to accept this order.”

  Her wild red hair fought its way out of the barrette, and she looked as though she was ready to leap across the table at the judge. The sheriff started walking toward her when her attorney gave a signal that he could deal with the outburst.

  “Counsel, get your client under control,” the judge ordered.

  Poor Joe. From the way she was twisting and turning, it looked like he was going to have to wrestle Marley to the ground. She was unrelenting until she spied the deputy walking toward her and saw him touch his handcuffs. That was the only thing that settled her down.

  “Another outburst like that, I will hold you in contempt of court, and you’ll be spending ten days in jail, young lady. You were apprised of the consequence at the start of this trial, and I specifically had you and your brother sign a document reflecting that yo
u understood this was something that could occur.

  “Now, to continue, I have prepared a separate order addressing Respondent’s request for attorney fees. I find that this litigation was frivolous in nature and lacked any legal merit. Therefore, I grant Alexander Clarke’s motion for attorney fees in the amount of one hundred eighty thousand dollars to be paid within thirty days of this order in certified funds and divided between Marley and Ashton Bennington in equal amounts. That is the order of this court and shall be filed accordingly. My deputy clerk is handing each counsel of record a copy on behalf of their clients.

  “Mr. Bennington, you are to wait in the holding cell to be transported back to state prison,” the judge said.

  Samantha’s brother, Ashton, was serving an eighteen-month sentence for financial fraud in a low-security prison. Not quite the Bernie Madoff of Colorado, but he bilked enough people out of their money that the word intentional rang true. If he had prevailed here, his creditors would have been like jackals around a dead carcass.

  And, with that, a year of a bloodbath of a trial ended. Now, Sam and I could marry with no ethical violation hanging over my head.

  I loved the Bennington estate. Living here spoke to a level of success that would be the envy of all my colleagues. Celebrating our victory in the mansion and the fact that we were to be married tomorrow made the evening all the more exciting. Everything was at a magical pitch until Sam started talking about her family.

  “This is what I want to do,” she said in almost a whisper. “I want to set aside a quarter of a million dollars for each of them from the sale of the house. For Marley, I’ll have to set it up as a trust with a spendthrift clause, or she will blow through every cent. And Ashton, I’ll probably have to set his up through one or more offshore corporations or holding companies, so his creditors can’t get it to pay the civil and criminal judgments in the fraud case.”

  My first instinct was to argue with her about giving her siblings anything. But this was likely a form of winner’s guilt that would wear off as time went on and become a moot point. There was a time and a place for everything, and this was not the time or the place to discuss such a reckless plan.

  “Now, I know we have discussed what to do with the paintings. I understand why you feel it would be best in today’s booming art market to put them up for auction. And, trust me, I am not happy about paying the premiums to insure them, but I have come up with a plan,” she continued, reaching for her notebook.

  “And I’m waiting on pins and needles to hear it,” I replied, pushing a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear.

  “I have contacted six museums and spoken with their people.” She smiled as if she had the plans for world peace at her fingertips. “I’m going to lend the paintings to the museums, so they can place them on exhibition. In doing this, the museum will be responsible for insurance and security. And, because of this, I can execute some type of legal loophole about the estate taxes that would hit me,” Samantha told me.

  Had someone inverted my world? In what universe would someone do such a thing without talking to the person you were marrying in less than twenty-four hours?

  I’d reached a crossroad. If I argued with her, she might want to rethink her plans to marry me and think we might not be compatible after all. Or I could wait, and once married, I could catch her in a vulnerable position and make her see things my way. Yes, that was the better plan.

  “Well, that is very noble and something worth considering,” I said.

  We were about to have another drink of champagne when we heard a pounding at the front door along with the simultaneous ringing of the bell. Then, the shouting began.

  Marley.

  “Open up the fucking door,” she pounded.

  “Call the police,” I said to Samantha. “We are not dealing with this tonight.”

  As she was about to answer, we heard the crashing of something that sounded like glass or maybe pottery.

  “Shit.” I was on my feet, running toward the door.

  When I opened it, I saw a broken flowerpot and dirt scattered on the porch. Marley was tearing through what once had been flowers in the jug. Possibly looking for a weapon from the broken pottery.

  What the hell?

  She was screaming over and over, “I want my money. I want my fucking money.”

  Sam ran to stop her when Marley picked up a shard of the broken vase.

  “Come near me, bitch, and I’ll cut you.”

  She was clearly drunk and probably high. Her pretty face was streaked with mascara, and her wild red hair gave her a comical appearance, as if she were Bozo the Clown’s sister. Her breath stunk of beer and whiskey.

  “Oh my God, you’re drunk, and you drove here like this? What’s wrong with you? You could have killed someone. I’m calling you an Uber,” Sam said.

  “I’m not leaving here without my m-m-money,” she slurred.

  “We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” Sam replied, trying to move a little closer.

  “And you! You are a fucking cold, bastard gold digger. You’re not getting a penny from me for lawyer fees,” she said, now waving the piece of ceramic my way.

  My motto had always been never to argue with toddlers and drunks. I stood there, crossed my arms, and let her continue her rant.

  “And the Campendonk is mine. I helped Grandpa pick that out. You have no right to it,” she screamed.

  Then, I broke my own rule. “Marley, your grandfather knew, if he left you in charge of any money, you’d spend it on party drugs. You’d sell the painting for a song—” I said.

  “This is none of your business,” she screamed and lurched forward.

  I put my hand out to stop her, and she swiped my arm with the pottery shard, drawing a trickle of blood.

  “That’s it. Uber or police?” Sam said, standing up to look at the cut.

  “Neither,” she said, and before anyone could stop her, she raced to her car and drove away.

  “Call the police and report her driving drunk while I wash this cut,” I said.

  She hesitated as she assessed my arm.

  “Sam, that woman is dangerous. You need to call the cops,” I reinforced.

  “What, to embarrass her more? It’s only a few miles on a secluded road. Leave her be,” Sam said.

  “I’m not comfortable with your decision, but she’s your sister,” I said.

  A sober Marley was trouble. But a drunk Marley was a disaster.

  “Come on. We have a wedding tomorrow morning to get ready for,” she replied and feather-kissed my lips.

  I could tell a diversion when I saw one. I had worked hard to get her in the position to marry me, and Marley was not going to wreck my plans.

  Dalia

  From the time I had been small, everything in my life had been organized, and nothing had ever been left to chance. No one could ever accuse me of being careless or a risk-taker. I was in charge of my life, and that was the way I lived it.

  But, for a fleeting moment, my thoughts tormented me. Had I truly made the right decision to leave a job that had been my lifeblood for eight years? My colleagues were my family, and leaving them would be like leaving home. But there was no challenge any longer; nothing could throw me a curveball on the job. I had seen it all. I needed a change, but change equaled risk.

  I must admit, there were some exciting moments in the cases we prosecuted. Art fraud and forgery went hand in hand with money laundering and other sinister acts. Stopping someone before he could exchange art for weapons earned a place of pride and satisfaction in my heart. But, for the most part, forgery involved people stupid enough to throw their money away without doing their due diligence. I had come to the point where I was certain they didn’t care they were swindled if done privately. Once their bad judgment was revealed publicly, that became a whole other matter. Then, the victim was out for blood. I was cynical and no longer had the fire in me to be a zealous advocate for careless people.

  As I gave my apartment that
last glance, I found it difficult to catch my breath. Was it too late to reconsider? Did I really want to reconsider? Not really. It was just a blip. Over the years, I’d been cautious in my spending, and my nest egg would last at least eight months even if I did nothing but deplete it.

  Three weeks ago, it was as if an angel had whispered instructions in my ear to call my old friend Emma O’Reilly. Emma and I had been roommates in college and spent many nights sharing all our secrets and fears. When I’d told her I felt like an acrobat flying without a net, she’d had me swear that I would spend at least two weeks with her before deciding my next step. As soon as I had gotten off the phone, my plans to visit her in Denver had been made and the storage of my furniture completed.

  The door had been closed on my past, and if I had any sense, I’d be frightened for the unknown ahead.

  Emma’s farm-style kitchen provided the perfect place to let my mind unfurl as I watched with amusement while she tried to feed her squirming twins. More orange carrot paste painted their mouths than made it into their stomachs. They were a colorful mess. My life had been about nurturing my career, not children. Watching Emma with this chaos called life with children stirred something inside me that made me wonder what I had missed.

  “Roan, for the love of God and all that is holy, please sit up, or you’ll choke,” she warned the chubby toddler, trying to straighten him in his chair.

  Roan had bent himself around the back of his high chair in a position one could describe as an advanced yoga move. Clearly, his plan to avoid his food was well-thought-out. He responded to the warning by raising his little hand and slamming it down on the tray in the middle of the smeared mess. This adventuresome move amused his twin sister, Riona, and they both broke out in a fit of giggles.

  I was about to offer my help at feeding the moving targets when Emma’s aunt Mary, a spry ninety-year-old, swooped in to take over and shooed us into the living room. From the moment I’d met her so long ago, that woman always reminded me of the crabby yet charming mother in The Golden Girls. Emma gladly gave way to the reprieve, and we were on our feet, walking away from the orange-streaked war zone to the living room.