Excerpt of The Last Heir by Chuck Greaves

Prologue

“Five minutes!”

The gnome in the radio headset raised a hairy little hand
with all five digits splayed, in case we’d failed to hear
him shouting at us in our earpiece microphones. As I
reached to adjust mine – it felt like I’d fallen asleep
at my computer and awoken with the mouse lodged in my ear
– Terina Webb, our panel moderator, gently took my arm.

“Quit fidgeting.”

“What?”

“I said, stop fidgeting. You act like you’ve never done
this before.”

“I told you I’ve never done this before.”

“I know,” she said, “but don’t act like it. I told my
producer you were a pro.”

We were seated at a raised horseshoe podium, its surface
gleaming Lucite, its swivel chairs done in chrome and
black calfskin leather. Behind us, a curving video
screen carried a live feed from the civil courthouse in
Van Nuys, California, where Day One of this year’s Trial
of the Century had just recessed for lunch. Arrayed
before us were four TV monitors on which we’d been
following the morning’s proceedings from the relative
comfort of the cavernous CBS News soundstage in Studio
City, less than ten miles from the courthouse.

At the other end of the horseshoe, presently engrossed in
whispered conversation, sat a pair of tassel-loafered
Beverly Hills divorce lawyers who, had they been on the
meter, would have been billing Channel Nine Action News a
combined five grand per hour. Today, however, they –
along with yours truly – had been dragooned into
providing expert trial commentary for the over five
million Southern California housewives, shut-ins, and
unemployed actors with nothing better to do on a hazy
Monday in June than curl up with some popcorn and pray
for the second coming of O.J.

“Four minutes!”

The trial in progress was a so-called palimony action
brought by Rosemary “Randi” Tandy, a former adult-film
actress, against the widow of legendary Hollywood media
mogul Lew Rothstein. Mrs. Rothstein – Betsy to her
friends – was the executor of Big Lew’s billion-dollar
estate. She was also, it seems, the last of her gilded
social circle to learn that her octogenarian husband had
– according to the now-undisputed DNA evidence – fathered
three teenage daughters with the erstwhile thespian.

One can safely assume that most forty-something starlets
whose career apogee was a bachelor-party standard called
Randi Does Richmond would have been content, if faced
with the same situation, to sign a confidentiality
agreement and receive a quiet million dollars in child
support from the Rothstein estate. But then, most porn
stars would have lacked the perspicacity to hire Maxine
Cameron – the Pit Bull in Prada – as their lawyer. Just
as most lawyers would have lacked the requisite something
– let’s call them clanking brass balls – to sue for half
the Rothstein fortune on the enterprising theory that Big
Lew had verbally promised as much to his blushing young
paramour.

“Three minutes!”

Since jury selection and opening statements had concluded
last week, the morning’s televised proceedings had begun
with Maxine Cameron’s direct examination of her client.
Ms. Tandy had dressed for this solemn occasion in
leopard-print spandex with matching high heels, and she’d
teetered to the witness stand with a Kleenex box in her
bejeweled hand – always a harbinger of good television to
come. She’d then, under her counsel’s machine-gun
questioning, described with the exactitude of an Army
quartermaster every gift, trifle, and bauble Big Lew had
lavished upon her during their twenty-plus years of
quasi-connubial bliss.

It was an impressive inventory that ranged from furs to
diamonds to six Mercedes-Benz automobiles.

“Two minutes!”

Once Big Lew’s generosity had been firmly established,
the plaintiff next chronicled for the jury the many
exotic vacations the couple had taken together, from Maui
to Gstaad, Lake Como to Phuket Island. I was running a
tape in my head, and by the time the judge had called the
noon recess, I’d put the total of Big Lew’s largesse at
around six and a half million dollars.

My telephone vibrated, earning scowls both from Terina
and the gnome in the headset.

“Talk to me.”

“I just left the clerk’s office downtown.” Regan Fife,
my office investigator, had to shout to be heard over the
rumble of L.A. street traffic.

“And?”

“And you were right,” she said. “There’s nothing in the
file.”

“Okay, thanks.”

I powered down the phone and slipped it into my pocket.
By now the makeup girl had reappeared on set and was
moving down the line with her little powder-puff thingy.

“One minute!”

Terina shoved back from the podium, the better to deliver
a final pep-talk to her trio of expert panelists.

“Okay, listen up. I’ll do a short intro, then turn it
over to you. We’ll go from stage right to left, starting
with Marv. Just touch on what you thought were the
morning’s highlights, and then we’ll go to commercial.
Ten minutes total. That means you’ll each have up to
three minutes to talk.” To me she added, “Remember to
look into the camera with the red light showing. And
stop doing that thing with your ear.”

Marvin Broadman, the most famous divorce attorney in all
of Beverly Hills – a town with more family lawyers than
parking meters – cleared his throat as he smiled into
Camera Two.

“Ten seconds!”

A pharmaceutical commercial was running silently on the
monitors – floating butterflies carried a harried young
housewife to bed after a day of domestic drudgery – when
the light blinked red on Camera One, and the video feed
cut to Terina Webb in medium close-up.

“Welcome back to Channel Nine Action News’ live and in-
depth coverage of the blockbuster Beverly Hills Bigamy
Trial. I’m Terina Webb, your studio host, and I’m joined
today by three of the biggest names in the L.A. legal
world: Marvin Broadman, Tom Schwartz, and Jack
MacTaggart.” Terina did a half-turn to her right.
“We’ll start with you, Marv. First impressions, what did
you think of what you heard in court this morning?”

On the monitor, superimposed beneath Broadman’s grinning
yap, were his name and the tag-line Divorce Lawyer to the
Stars.

“Well, Terina, you know that whenever you have Maxine
Cameron in a courtroom, you’re going to see fireworks,
and today was certainly no exception. She effectively
established three things right up front that are critical
to her theory of the case. First, that the relationship
between her client and Lew Rothstein was a close one.
Second, that Big Lew’s generosity toward Ms. Tandy knew
no bounds. And third, that they traveled the world
together, often holding themselves out to the public as
husband and wife. It remains to be seen whether Maxine
can make the leap from those key facts to proving a
promise to leave half the Rothstein estate to Ms. Tandy,
but I think she’s off to a heck of a good start. And
given her track record with juries, I wouldn’t want to be
betting against her.”

“Tom?”

A decade younger than Broadman, Schwartz had leading-man
looks and a Faustian reputation as the go-to guy in
Hollywood for challenging prenuptial agreements. He was
said to have every tabloid and gossip-rag editor in the
country on speed-dial. He was also rumored to be on
monthly retainer by the Celebrity Centre of the Church of
Scientology.

“I’d have to concur with my friend on all counts, Terina.
We’ve both litigated against Maxine Cameron, and I’m sure
Marv will agree that when Maxine takes on a client’s
cause, she makes it personal. She also has an uncanny
knack for proving what might, at first blush, seem highly
improbable. We saw that this morning with her opening
gambit of establishing the kind of close relationship
between Ms. Tandy and Lew Rothstein that could easily
have led to the promise we’ll soon be hearing about. I’d
look for more of the same this afternoon, ending with a
bombshell at around four-thirty that will jolt the jury
awake and send them home with an entirely different view
of her client and her client’s case.”

Terina squared some papers as she swiveled to my side of
the podium.

“Jack?”

The light on Camera Three blinked red, and I stared into
the lens. I was, I’ll admit, at a momentary loss for
words, given that Schwartz and Broadman – both supremely
confident in their analyses – were reputedly among the
best in their specialized field.

“Say something!” barked the headset gnome, his klaxon
voice echoing deep in my cochlear canal.

I cleared my throat and swallowed.

“I guess I have a slightly different take on Ms.
Cameron’s performance this morning than do my esteemed
colleagues.” I glanced down the podium at Broadman and
Schwartz, both of whom were frowning back at me. “I’m
not a family lawyer, but I did do a bit of research
before I came down here today, and one thing I noted is
that the California Family Code gives an innocent spouse
up to three years from date of discovery within which to
recover for the community estate any unauthorized gifts
made by the other spouse during the marriage. Also, I
had my investigator check the probate file downtown, and
it appears that there was never a creditor’s claim filed
by Ms. Tandy against the Rothstein estate within the
four-month statutory deadline.”

Terina’s brow had furrowed. “The significance of all
that being . . .?”

“That unless I’m mistaken, Maxine Cameron just proved up
an airtight reimbursement case against her own client,
under oath, to the tune of around seven million dollars.
And if she never filed a written claim in the probate
action, then I’d say her palimony case against the
Rothstein estate is dead in the water, barred by
limitations.”

Silence fell over the set. Schwartz and Broadman shared
a glance, with Broadman muttering something that sounded
like “Holy shit.”
Terina, herself at an uncharacteristic loss for words,
swiveled back to the camera.

“Uh, why don’t we come back to explore these fascinating
new developments after a quick word from our sponsors.”

My nascent career in punditry proved, alas, to be short-
lived, since the first day of the blockbuster Beverly
Hills Bigamy Trial was also the last. Betsy Rothstein’s
motion for a directed verdict was granted after the first
day’s lunch recess had ended and, a week later, the
Rothstein estate sued Randi Tandy to recover some eight
million dollars in luxury goods and services. Which, in
the finest American tradition, Ms. Tandy sought to recoup
by filing a legal malpractice action against her lawyer,
Maxine Cameron.

On the whole, it promised to be another banner year for
the Beverly Hills Bar Association.

But the affair was not without a silver lining, as,
perhaps ten days after my appearance on television, the
phone rang in the law offices of MacTaggart & Suarez, and
an elderly gentleman introduced himself as a friend of
Betsy Rothstein. He asked, in a courtly French accent,
whether I’d be willing to consult with him on a matter
that was, as he put it, of “some delicacy.”

When he offered to pay for the consultation, travel time
included, I was favorably disposed toward his request.
Then, when he offered to send his private jet to fetch me
up for a weekend in Napa Valley, I had no choice but to
agree.

Chuck Greaves is the award-winning author of HUSH MONEY,
GREEN-EYED LADY, and THE LAST HEIR, all from St. Martin’s
Minotaur. Writing as C. Joseph Greaves, he is the author
of HARD TWISTED and the forthcoming TOM & CHARLIE (AND
GEORGE & COKEY FLO), both from Bloomsbury.