Before class, Quinn Parker sat in his Estates & Trusts lecture room reading the Louisville Courier-Journal. His knee hurt from tripping on the Student Center steps today. And he could still feel the crunch when the three hundred twenty pound defensive tackle accidentally stepped on it, dislodging the patella, severing the quadricep tendon and damaging some lateral ligaments.
The team doctor prescribed Vicodin. Even now, seven months later, he still needed the Vicodin because the pain at times overwhelmed him. But getting his prescription refilled was proving more difficult each time.
He checked the sports section, then flipped to Business and noticed a lengthy article about a wealthy Kentuckian named Leland T. Radford. The man, a widower, had passed away recently in Manchester, Kentucky. His only child, a son and U.S. Army Second Lieutenant, was killed in an Iraq roadside explosion.
Radford’s huge estate included manufacturing companies, Internet enterprises, stocks and bonds, real estate in London, thoroughbred horse farms, and twelve thousand acres in southeastern Kentucky rumored to hold vast reserves of bituminous coal. His estate would be probated in about a week or so, and with no heirs, the state was already counting the revenue from the sale of the estate properties.
“Interesting case,” said a familiar voice.
Quinn looked up and saw his favorite professor, tall, silver-haired, silver-tongued Robert Bossung, scanning the article over Quinn’s shoulder.
Quinn smiled. “Yes sir, all that moolah and no heirs.”
Bossung nodded. “Maybe you’re his long lost secret son, Quinn.”
“Quite likely, sir.”
“Why?”
“He was smart and handsome like me.”
“You forget humble!” Professor Bossung smiled as he wiped his horn-rimmed bifocals with a tissue. “Actually, I find this case worthy of closer examination by our Estates class.”
“It is intriguing.”
“Glad you agree. Because I was thinking it would be terrific if you could go down to Manchester and talk to the executor of the estate, a probate lawyer. Guy named Fletcher Falcone. I met him once. Affable country lawyer. Learn all you can about the Radford estate. Then come back and enlighten your fellow students with your usual succinct and brilliant brief, say by next Wednesday. Of course, Brandeis Law will reimburse your expenses.”
Quinn realized Bossung just suckered him into another assignment. But maybe a good one. It would be nice to gaze at green forests instead of yellow legal pads.
“Hang on, Quinn. I’ll try to get you an appointment with Falcone.”
Professor Bossung took out his cellphone, got Falcone’s office number, and dialed. He chatted briefly with Falcone, wrote on a scrap of paper, then hung up and handed Quinn Falcone’s Manchester address and phone number.
“Falcone can meet you in his office around this time tomorrow, if you can make it?”
“I can.”
“Excellent!”
As Professor Bossung walked toward the front of the lecture room, Quinn Googled Manchester, Kentucky on his iPhone. He saw rolling hills and thick forests surrounded the town. He noticed it was not far from Harlan … where the girl he’d spilled coffee on was from. Ellie Stuart.
Quinn remembered how excited Ellie was when he offered to help her find out more about her adoption. He also remembered she was smart and had an easygoing sense of humor. But her life had been anything but easygoing. Losing both adoptive parents at sixteen, being left on her own, and supporting herself ever since must have been incredibly painful. But despite all that, she came across as well adjusted and appeared to have handled all her adversity well.
Maybe he could help her find out more about her adoption on his trip to Manchester.
As he folded his newspaper, another article caught his attention:
U OF L FEMALE STUDENT ATTACKED IN HOME!
The young woman had been assaulted in her apartment, robbed and left for dead. Now she was in a coma. Her attack was shocking.
So was her name.
Elle Steward - so close to - Ellie Stuart.
Too close maybe.
Like the van that got too close and almost hit Ellie as she rode her bike to school.
What the hell was going on here?
He hurried out into the hall and dialed Ellie’s number. It rang several times but did not go into voice mail. He hung up and wondered if she was all right.
As he turned around, his phone vibrated. He saw caller ID and answered.
“Hi, Ellie.”
“Hey Quinn. Sorry I didn’t reach the phone when you just called. By the way, you’re off the hook.”
“What?”
“The coffee stains washed right out.”
He smiled. “That’s great.”
“So what’s up?”
“My professor asked me to drive down to Manchester to research the estate of a guy for our class.”
“Manchester’s a nice town.”
“And not far from Harlan. Anyway, I thought if you’d like to tag along, we could swing by Harlan courthouse, maybe talk to the family court judge. See if we can learn more about your adoption.”
No response. “When are you driving down?”
“Tomorrow morning at eight.”
“I’d love to go, Quinn. But let me see if my neighbor can stay with Celeste, the elderly woman I take care of. My neighbor’s here now. Hang on, I’ll ask her.”
While she asked, Quinn read that the deceased man, a businessman and philanthropist named Leland. T. Radford, had rebuilt sixty-two New Orleans homes and three grade schools destroyed by Katrina, plus several homes destroyed by tornadoes and floods.
“I can go, Quinn.”
“Good. See you at eight.”
“I’ll be ready.”
She gave him her address and they hung up.
Quinn felt good about getting away. It would be interesting to learn more about Leland Radford, a man who’d actually been born in a one-room Kentucky log cabin like old Abe Lincoln who was born in Hardin County, Kentucky.
And now that he thought about it – getting away from Jennifer for a day would be good, too. Over the last few weeks and months, she’d grown increasingly possessive of his time. Very possessive.
In fact, she was probably planning something very possessive of his time right now. He better call and tell her about his trip. He dialed and she answered on the first ring.
“Wow, I was just starting to call you,” she said.
“About what?”
“My dress for the Cotillion ball. DuMauriers just got in some new Vera Wangs! I hear they’re stunning! Tomorrow morning you have to help me pick one out.”
“I’d like to, Jenn, but I’ve got to drive down to Manchester tomorrow morning.”
“Manchester …?” She made it sound like North Korea.
“Yeah. My professor asked me to go down and research an important probate case there. I’m leaving at eight to meet the estate executor. What time does DuMauriers open?”
“Eleven, but you have to see my dress first.”
“I can’t wait that late, Jenn, and make my appointment. I’m sorry.”
“But I have to pick a dress tomorrow so they can start the fittings.”
“I understand, but - ”
“ - Go next week.”
“Too late. The probate court date is next week.”
He heard a couple of huffs and some harrumphs and feared she might be winding herself up into a hissy fit. But then she seemed to gain some control. “Well … okay, but I hate to think of you driving down there all by yourself.”
Oh shit! Not telling her about driving Ellie would mean hell to pay if she found out later. Telling her now would mean hell to pay now! Choose your hell, Quinn!
“Well, actually, I’m driving someone down there.”
“Who?”
“The girl I spilled coffee on.”
Silence.
“She’s from nearby Harlan and needs legal help in finding out more about her adoption.”
Jennifer was silent for so long he thought the line had disconnected.
“Why can’t she drive herself down?”
“She doesn’t have a car.”
Silence.
“I can’t believe you’d waste time with her instead of helping me choose my dress!” He heard anger in her voice.
“Jennifer, you’d look beautiful in burlap. And finding out where she comes from will mean a hell of a lot to her.”
“Well my dress means a hell of a lot to me!”
Quinn took a deep breath. “I understand. But my meeting time is fixed with the estate executor. I have to leave tomorrow morning early.”
“Fine! Take Daisy Mae with you! But make sure you do one thing on the way down.”
“What’s that?”
“Stop at all the bars and trailer parks.”
“Why?”
“So she can ask - Who’s my daddy?”
Jennifer hung up.
Quinn leaned back, let the air drain from his lungs, then shook his head. When they began dating a few months ago, he was blinded by Jennifer’s beauty - which blinded him to her flaws.
But then, slowly, her elitist attitude crept into little things she said and did. And then into big things she said and did. And it bothered him a lot. And yesterday, as he drove Jennifer to her Cotillion ball rehearsal, she’d bad-mouthed Ellie Stuart non-stop … “Did you notice her cheap dirty clothes and hear her awful hillbilly twang?”
Increasingly, Jennifer showed little interest in anyone from outside her zip code. Which included most of his friends. Her emerging haughtiness, and increasing possessiveness of his time, had been turning him off for weeks. When he tried to talk to her about it, she denied the problem.
He’d have to talk to her again about it. Soon.
A talk he was not looking forward to.
Who enjoys talking to a wall?