The Amber Room

THREE

4:50 p.m.

Paul Cutler stood from the oak armchair and addressed the court, his lawyerly patience wearing thin. "Your Honor, the estate does not contest movant's services. Instead, we merely challenge the amount he's attempting to charge. Twelve thousand three hundred dollars is a lot of money to paint a house."

"It was a big house," the creditor's lawyer said.

"I would hope," the probate judge added.

Paul said, "The house is two thousand square feet. Not a thing unusual about it. The paint job was routine. Movant is not entitled to the amount charged."

"Judge, the decedent contracted with my client for a complete house painting, which my client did."

"What the movant did, Judge, was take advantage of a seventy-three-year-old man. He did not render twelve thousand three hundred dollars' worth of services."

"The decedent promised my client a bonus if he finished within a week, and he did."

He couldn't believe the other lawyer was pressing the point with a straight face. "That's convenient, considering the only other person to contradict that promise is dead. The bottom line is that our firm is the named executor on the estate, and we cannot in good conscience pay this bill."

"You want a trial on it?" the crinkly judge asked the other side.

The creditor's lawyer bent down and whispered with the housepainter, a younger man noticeably uncomfortable in a tan polyester suit and tie. "No, sir. Perhaps a compromise. Seven thousand five hundred."

Paul never flinched. "One thousand two hundred and fifty. Not a dime more. We employed another painter to view the work. From what I've been told, we have a good suit for shoddy workmanship. The paint also appears to have been watered down. As far as I'm concerned, we'll let the jury decide." He looked at the other lawyer. "I get two hundred and twenty dollars an hour while we fight. So take your time, counselor."

The other lawyer never even consulted his client. "We don't have the resources to litigate this matter, so we have no choice but to accept the estate's offer."

"I bet. Bloody damn extortionist," Paul muttered, just loud enough for the other lawyer to hear, as he gathered his file.

"Draw an order, Mr. Cutler," the judge said.

Paul quickly left the hearing room and marched down the corridors of the Fulton County probate division. It was three floors down from the melange of Superior Court and a world apart. No sensational murders, high-profile litigation, or contested divorces. Wills, trusts, and guardianships formed the extent of its limited jurisdiction--mundane, boring, with evidence usually amounting to diluted memories and tales of alliances both real and imagined. A recent state statute Paul helped draft allowed jury trials in certain instances, and occasionally a litigant would demand one. But, by and large, business was tended to by a stable of elder judges, themselves once advocates who roamed the same halls in search of letters testamentary.

Ever since the University of Georgia sent him out into the world with a juris doctorate, probate work had been Paul's specialty. He'd not gone right to law school from college, summarily rejected by the twenty-two schools he'd applied to. His father was devastated. For three years he labored at the Georgia Citizens Bank in the probate and trust department as a glorified clerk, the experience enough motivation for him to retake the law school admission exam and reapply. Three schools ultimately accepted him, and a third-year clerkship resulted in a job at Pridgen & Woodworth after graduation. Now, thirteen years later, he was a sharing-partner in the firm, senior enough in the probate and trust department to be next in line for full partnership and the department's managerial reins.

He turned a corner and zeroed in on double doors at the far end.

Today had been hectic. The painter's motion had been scheduled for over a week, but right after lunch his office received a call from another creditor's lawyer to hear a hastily arranged motion. Originally it was set for 4:30, but the lawyer on the other side failed to show. So he'd shot over to an adjacent hearing room and taken care of the house painter's attempted thievery. He yanked open the wooden doors and stalked down the center aisle of the deserted courtroom. "Heard from Marcus Nettles yet?" he asked the clerk at the far end.

A smile creased the woman's face. "Sure did."

"It's nearly five. Where is he?"

"He's a guest of the sheriff's department. Last I heard, they've got him in a holding cell."

He dropped his briefcase on the oak table. "You're kidding."

"Nope. Your ex put him in this morning."

"Rachel?"

The clerk nodded. "Word is he got smart with her in chambers. Paid her three hundred dollars then told her to F off three times."

The courtroom doors swung open and T. Marcus Nettles waddled in. His beige Neiman Marcus suit was wrinkled, Gucci tie out of place, the Italian loafers scuffed and dirty.

"About time, Marcus. What happened?"

"That bitch you once called your wife threw me in jail and left me there since this mornin'." The baritone voice carried a strain. "Tell me, Paul. Is she really a woman or some hybrid with nuts between those long legs?"

He started to say something, then decided to let it go.

"She climbs my ass in front of a jury because I called her sir--"

"Four times, I heard," the clerk said.

"Yeah. Probably was. After I move for a mistrial, which she should have granted, she gives my guy twenty years without a presentence hearin'. Then she wants to give me an ethics lesson. I don't need that shit. Particularly from some smart-ass bitch. I can tell you now, I'll be pumpin' money to both her opponents. Lots of money. I'm going to rid myself of that problem the second Tuesday in July."

He'd heard enough. "You ready to argue this motion?"

Nettles laid his briefcase on the table. "Why not? I figured I'd be in that cell all night. Guess the whore has a heart, after all."

"That's enough, Marcus," he said, his voice a bit firmer than he intended.

Nettles's eyes tightened, a penetrating feral stare that seemed to read his thoughts. "The shit you care? You've been divorced--what?--three years? She must gouge a chunk out of your paycheck every month in child support."

He said nothing.

"I'll be fuckin' damned," Nettles said. "You still got a thing for her, don't you?"

"Can we get on with it?"

"Son of a bitch, you do." Nettles shook his bulbous head.

He headed for the other table to get ready for the hearing. The clerk popped from her chair and walked back to fetch the judge. He was glad she'd left. Courthouse gossip blew from ear to ear like a wildfire.

Nettles settled his portly frame into the armchair. "Paul, my boy, take it from a five-time loser. Once you get rid of 'em, be rid of 'em."