The Twelfth Card (56 page)

Hanson frowned and looked at Cole, who gave them a sympathetic look. “On the facts that you’ve given me, making a tortious claim against the bank for infliction of emotional distress probably wouldn’t get very far. See, the problem is that Mr. Ashberry was acting on his own, not as a bank officer. We’re not responsible for his actions.” A glance toward Goades, which may or may not have been condescending. “As your fine counsel here will tell you.”

Hanson added quickly to Geneva, “But, we’re very sympathetic to what you went through.” Stella Turner nodded. They seemed to mean this sincerely. “We’ll make it up to you.” He offered a smile. “I think you’ll find we can be pretty generous.”

His lawyer added what he had to: “Within reason.”

Rhyme regarded the bank president closely. Gregory Hanson seemed nice enough. Boyishly fifties, an easy smile. Probably one of those natural-born businessmen—the sort who was a decent boss and family man, did his job competently, worked long hours for the shareholders, flew coach on the company dime, remembered his employees’ birthdays.

The criminalist almost felt bad about what was coming next.

Wesley Goades, however, exhibited no remorse whatsoever as he said, “Mr. Hanson, the loss we’re talking about isn’t your corporate officer’s attempted
murder
of Ms. Settle—which is how
we
phrase the act—not ‘emotional distress.’ No, her suit is on behalf of Charles Singleton’s heirs, to recover the property stolen by Hiram Sanford, as well as monetary damages—”

“Wait,” the president whispered, giving a faint laugh.

“—damages equal to the rents and profits that your bank has made from that property from the date the court transferred title.” He consulted a piece of paper. “That’d be August 4, 1868. The money’ll be placed in a trust for the benefit of all of Mr. Singleton’s descendants, with distribution to be supervised by the court. We don’t have the actual figure yet.” Finally Goades looked up and held Hanson’s eye. “But we’re ballparking it conservatively at around nine hundred and seventy million dollars.”

“
That’s
what William Ashberry was willing to kill for,” Rhyme explained. “To keep the theft of Charles’s property a secret. If anybody found out and his heirs made a claim, it would be the end of the real estate division and might even drive the entire Sanford Bank into bankruptcy.”

“Oh, well, now, this’s absurd,” the lawyer across the table from them blustered. The two legal opponents were equally tall and skinny, though Cole had a better tan. Rhyme suspected that Wesley Goades didn’t get out on tennis courts or golf courses very often. “Look around you. The blocks’re developed! Every square inch is built on.”

“We have no claim to the construction,” Goades said, as if this were clear. “We only want title to the land, and the rents that’ve been paid with respect to it.”

“For a hundred and forty
years
?”

“It’s not
our
problem that that’s when Sanford robbed Charles.”

“But most of the land’s been sold off,” Hanson said. “The bank only owns the two apartment buildings on this block and this mansion.”

“Well, naturally we’ll be instituting an accounting action to trace the proceeds of the property your bank illegally sold.”

“But we’ve been disposing of parcels for over a hundred years.”

Goades spoke to the tabletop. “I’ll say again:
your
problem, not ours.”

“No,” Cole snapped. “Forget it.”

“Ms. Settle is actually being quite restrained in her damage claim. There’s a good argument to be made for the fact that without her ancestor’s property, your bank would have gone under altogether in the eighteen sixties and that she’s entitled to
all
of your worldwide earnings. But we’re not seeking that. She doesn’t want the present shareholders of the bank to suffer too much.”

“Damn generous,” the lawyer muttered.

“It was her decision. I was in favor of closing you down.”

Cole leaned forward. “Listen, why don’t you take a reality pill here? You have no case. For one thing, the statute of limitations has run. You’ll be kicked out of court on motion.”

“Have you ever noticed,” Rhyme asked, unable to resist, “how people always lead with their weakest argument? . . . Sorry, forgive the footnote.”

“As for the statute,” Goades said, “we can make a solid argument that it’s been tolled and we’re entitled to bring the suit under principles of equity.”

The lawyer had explained to Rhyme that in some cases the time limit on bringing a lawsuit could be “tolled”—extended—if the defendant covers up a crime so that the victims don’t know it occurred, or when they aren’t able to sue, like when the courts and prosecutors were acting in collusion with the wrongdoer, which had happened in the Singleton case. Goades reiterated this now.

“But whatever Hiram Sanford did,” the other lawyer pointed out, “it had nothing to do with my client—the present bank.”

“We’ve traced ownership of the bank all the way back to the original Hiram Sanford Bank and Trust Limited, which was the entity that took title to the Singleton farm. Sanford used the bank as a cover. Unfortunately . . . for you, that is.” Goades said this as cheerfully as an unsmiling man could.

Cole wasn’t giving up. “Well, what proof do you have that the property would’ve been passed down through the family? This Charles Singleton could’ve sold it for five hundred dollars in 1870 and squandered the money away.”

“We have evidence that he intended to keep the farm in his family.” Rhyme turned to Geneva. “What did Charles say?”

The girl didn’t need to look at any notes. “In a letter to his wife he told her he never wanted to sell the farm. He said, ‘I wish the land to pass intact to our son and his issue; professions and trades ebb and flow, the financial markets are fickle, but the earth is God’s great constant—and our farm will ultimately bring to our family respectability in the eyes of those who do not respect us now. It will be our children’s salvation, and that of the generations that will follow.’ ”

Enjoying his role as cheerleader, Rhyme said, “Just think of how a jury’ll react to
that
. Not a dry eye.”

Cole leaned forward angrily toward Goades. “Oh, I know what’s going on here. You’re making it sound like she’s a victim. But this’s just blackmail. Like all the rest of the slavery reparations bullshit, right? I’m sorry Charles Singleton was a slave. I’m sorry he or his father, or whoever, was brought here against his will.” Cole waved his arm, as if shooing away a bee, and glanced at Geneva. “Well, young lady, that was a long, long time ago. My great-grandfather
died of black lung. You don’t see me suing West Virginia Coal and Shale, looking for some easy money. You people have to get over it. Just get on with your lives. If you spent as much time—”

“Hold up,” Hanson snapped. Both he and his assistant glared at the lawyer.

Cole licked his lips and then sat back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. I said ‘you people’ but I didn’t mean . . . ” He was looking at Wesley Goades.

But it was Geneva who spoke. “Mr. Cole, I feel the same way. Like, I really believe in what Frederick Douglass said. ‘People might not get all they work for in this world, but they must certainly work for all they get.’ I don’t want any easy money.”

The lawyer eyed her uncertainly. He looked down after a moment. Geneva did not. She continued, “You know, I’ve been talking to my father about Charles. I found out some things about him. Like, his grandfather was kidnapped by slavers and taken away from his family in Yorubaland and sent to Virginia. Charles’s father died when he was forty-two because his master thought it’d be cheaper to buy a new, younger slave than to treat him for pneumonia. I found out that Charles’s mother was sold to a plantation in Georgia when Charles was twelve and he never saw her again. But, you know what?” she asked calmly. “I’m not asking for a penny because of
those
things. No. It’s real simple. Something Charles loved was taken away from him. And I’ll do whatever I have to to make sure the thief pays for that.”

Cole murmured another apology but his legal genes wouldn’t let him abdicate his client’s cause. He glanced at Hanson then continued, “I appreciate what you’re saying and we’ll offer a settlement based on Mr. Ashberry’s actions. But as for the claim
to the property? We can’t go there. We don’t even know that you have legal standing to bring the suit. What proof do you have that you’re really Charles Singleton’s descendant?”

Lincoln Rhyme eased his finger across the touchpad and steered his chair imposingly close to the table. “Isn’t it about time somebody here asked why
I
tagged along?”

Silence.

“I don’t get out very much, as you can imagine. So what do you think brought me all these long blocks west?”

“Lincoln,” chided Thom.

“All right, all right, I’ll get to the point. Exhibit A.”

“What exhibit?” Cole asked.

“I’m being facetious. The letter.” He glanced at Geneva. She opened her own backpack and took out a folder. She slipped a photocopy onto the desk.

The Sanford side of the table looked it over.

“One of Singleton’s letters?” Hanson asked.

“Nice handwriting,” Rhyme observed. “That was important back then. Not like nowadays, all this typing and careless jotting . . . All right, sorry—no more digressions. Here’s the point: I had a colleague, fellow named Parker Kincaid, down in D.C., compare that handwriting to all the existing samples of Charles Singleton’s exemplars, including legal documents in archives down in Virginia. Parker’s former FBI—he’s the handwriting expert the experts go to when they have a questioned document. He’s executed an affidavit stating that this’s identical to the known samples of Singleton’s handwriting.”

“Okay,” Cole conceded, “it’s his letter. So?”

“Geneva,” Rhyme said, “what does Charles say?”

She nodded at the letter and recited, again from memory, “ ‘And yet the source of my tears—the
stains you see on this paper, my darling,—are not from pain but from regret for the misery I have visited upon us.’ ”

“The original letter contains several stains,” Rhyme explained. “We analyzed them and found lysozyme, lipocalin and lactoferrin—proteins, if you’re interested—and assorted enzymes, lipids and metabolites. Those, and water, of course, make up human tears . . . . By the way, did you know that the composition of tears differs significantly depending on whether they were shed in pain or because of emotion? These tears”—a nod toward the document—“were shed in emotion. I can prove that. I suspect the jury will find that fact moving too.”

Cole sighed. “You’ve run a DNA test on the stain and it matches Ms. Settle’s DNA.”

Rhyme shrugged and muttered the byword for today: “Obviously.”

Hanson looked at Cole, whose eyes slipped back and forth between the letter and his notes. The president said to Geneva, “A million dollars. I’ll write you a check right now for a million dollars, if you and your guardian sign a liability waiver.”

Goades said coolly, “Ms. Settle insists on seeking restitution in the amount of the actual damages—monies that all of Charles Singleton’s heirs will share in, not just herself.” He leveled another gaze at the bank president. “I’m sure you weren’t suggesting that your payment would be for her alone, an incentive, maybe, to neglect to inform her relatives about what happened.”

“No, no, of course not,” Hanson said quickly. “Let me talk to our board. We’ll come up with a settlement figure.”

Goades gathered up the papers and stuffed them into his knapsack. “I’m filing the complaint in two
weeks. If you want to discuss voluntarily creating a trust fund for the claimants, you can call me here.” He slid a card across the desk.

When they were at the door the bank’s attorney, Cole, said, “Geneva, wait, please. Look, I’m sorry about what I said before. Truly. It was . . . inappropriate. I honestly feel bad for what happened to you and to your ancestor. And I
do
have your interest in mind here. Just remember that a settlement would be far and away the best thing for you and your relatives. Let your lawyer tell you how tough a trial like this would be, how long it could take, how expensive.” He smiled. “Trust me. We
are
on your side here.”

Geneva looked him over. Her reply was: “The battles’re the same as they’ve always been. It’s just harder to recognize the enemy.” She turned and continued out the door.

The attorney clearly had no idea what she meant.

Which, Rhyme supposed, more or less proved her point.

Early Wednesday, the autumn air cold and clear as fresh ice.

Geneva had just visited her father at Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital and was on her way to Langston Hughes High. She’d finished the paper on
Home to Harlem.
It turned out not to be such a bad book (though she’d still rather have written about Octavia Butler;
damn,
that woman could write!) and she was pretty pleased with her report.

What was especially phat, though, was that Geneva’d written it on a word processor, one of the Toshibas in Mr. Rhyme’s lab, which Thom had showed her how to use. At school the few computers that worked were so overbooked that you couldn’t get more than fifteen minutes of time on one, let alone use it to write a whole paper. And to find facts or research all she had to do was “minimize” WordPerfect and call up the Internet. A miracle. What would’ve otherwise taken her two days to write, she finished in mere hours.

Crossing the street, she aimed for the shortcut through the school yard of PS 288 elementary school, which took a few minutes off the trip from the Eighth Avenue train station to Langston Hughes. The chain-link fence around the school yard cast a gridded shadow on the bleached-gray asphalt. The slim girl slipped easily through the gap in the gate, which had long ago been wedged open wide enough for a teenage boy and a basketball to
pass through. The hour was early, the yard deserted.

She was ten feet across the grounds when she heard a voice calling from the other side of the fence.