Gray Mountain Page 23

  handled many small aircraft fatalities.”

  “Any that were deliberately caused?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. Two of them. One in Idaho and one down in Colombia. If I know my dad, he’s on the phone and computer right now looking, checking out experts for small Cessna crashes. He said the main thing is to make sure the airplane is secure at this point.”

  “It’s secure.”

  “Anyway, Marshall Kofer is on board if we need him.”

  “Thanks. I like your father.”

  “So do I, most of the time.”

  “I’m cold, are you cold?”

  “Yes.”

  “And we’re supposed to go to Mattie’s, right?”

  “I think so.”

  Because there was so little left of the Gray family, and their home had been destroyed years earlier, the cakes and casseroles had to be delivered somewhere else, and Mattie’s was the logical choice. The food began arriving late in the afternoon, and along with each dish came a lengthy visit by whoever prepared it. Tears were shed, condolences passed along, promises made to help in any way, and, most important, details were pursued. The men loitered on the front porch and by the driveway, smoking and gossiping and wondering what really caused the crash. Engine failure? Was he off course? Someone said he had not radioed Mayday—the universal distress call for pilots. What could this possibly mean? Most of the men had flown only once or twice in their lives, some never, but such inexperience did not diminish the speculation. Inside, the women organized the tide of food, often dipping in for quick taste tests, while fussing over Mattie and pondering aloud the current state of Donovan’s marriage to Judy, a pretty young thing who’d never found her place in town but was now remembered with unrestrained affection.

  Judy and Mattie had eventually worked out the arrangements. Judy at first preferred to wait until Saturday for a memorial service, but Mattie felt it was wrong to force folks to suffer through Thanksgiving with such unpleasant business still hanging. Samantha was learning, as she watched it all from as much distance as possible, that traditions were important in Appalachia, and there was no hurry in burying the dead. After six years in New York, she was accustomed to quick send-offs so the living could get on with life and work. Mattie, too, seemed eager to speed things along, and she finally convinced Judy to hold the service on Wednesday afternoon. Donovan would be in the ground when they awoke on Thursday and got on with the holiday.

  The United Methodist Church, 4:00 p.m. Wednesday, November 26, with the burial to follow in the cemetery behind the church. Donovan and Judy were members there, though they had not attended in years.

  Jeff wanted to bury his brother on Gray Mountain, but Judy didn’t like the idea. Judy didn’t like Jeff and the feelings were mutual. As Donovan’s legally married wife, Judy had full authority over all arrangements. It was a tradition, not a law, and everyone understood it, including Jeff.

  Samantha hung around Mattie’s for an hour Monday night, but was soon tired of the ritual of sitting with other mourners, then grazing through the food covering the kitchen table, then stepping outside for fresh air. She was tired of the mindless chatter of people who knew Mattie and Chester well, but not their nephew. She was tired of the gossip and speculation. She was amused by the speed with which the small town embraced the tragedy and seemed determined to make the most of it, but the amusement soon became frustration.

  Jeff, too, seemed bored and frustrated. After being hugged and fawned over by the large women he hardly knew, he quietly vanished. He pecked Samantha on the cheek and said he needed some time alone. She left soon thereafter and walked through the quiet town to her apartment. Annette called her over and they drank tea in the dark den until midnight, and talked of nothing but Donovan Gray.

  Before sunrise, Samantha was wide awake, sipping coffee and online. The Roanoke paper ran a brief story about the accident, but there was nothing new. Donovan was described as a devoted advocate for the rights of coal miners and landowners. The Tate verdict was mentioned, along with the Hammer Valley lawsuit against Krull Mining and the Ryzer lawsuit against Lonerock Coal and its lawyers. A lawyer pal in West Virginia described him as “a fearless protector of the native beauty of Appalachia” and “a staunch enemy of wayward coal companies.” There was no mention of possible foul play. All applicable agencies were investigating. He had just turned thirty-nine and left a wife and one child.

  Her father called early and was curious about the funeral arrangements. He offered to drive down and sit with her during the service, but Samantha said no thanks. Marshall had spent most of Monday working the phone, digging for as much inside info as possible. He promised to have “something” by the time they got together in a few days. They would discuss the Ryzer case, which was now in limbo for obvious reasons.

  The office was like a funeral home, dark and gloomy with no prospects of a pleasant day. Barb hung a wreath on the door and locked it. Mattie stayed home and the rest of them should have. Appointments were canceled and phone calls were ignored. The Mountain Legal Aid Clinic was not really open for business.

  Nor was the law office of Donovan M. Gray, three blocks down Main Street. An identical wreath hung on its locked door, and inside Jeff huddled with the secretary and the paralegal and tried to put together a plan. The three were the only remaining employees of the firm, a firm that was now dead.

  24

  A tragic death, a well-known lawyer, free admission, a nosy little town, another boring Wednesday afternoon—mix all of these ingredients and the church was filled long before 4:00 p.m., when the Reverend Condry rose to begin the memorial service. He offered a windy prayer and sat down as the choir sang the first of several mournful dirges. He rose again for some Holy Scripture and a rambling, somber thought or two. The first eulogy was given by Mattie, who struggled to contain her emotions as she talked about her nephew. She proved quite capable of talking while crying, and at times had everyone else crying with her. When she told the story of Donovan finding the body of his mother, her dear sister Rose, her voice cracked and she stopped for a moment. She swallowed hard and forged ahead.

  Samantha was five rows back, between Barb and Annette, all three clutching tissues and dabbing their cheeks. All three were thinking the same thought: Come on, Mattie, you can do it. Let’s get to the end now. Mattie, though, was in no hurry. This was Donovan’s only farewell service and no one would be rushed.

  The closed casket was parked at the foot of the pulpit and covered with flowers. Annette had whispered that in these parts many funeral services took place with the casket open, so that the mourners were required to view the deceased while great things were said about him. It was an odd custom, one aimed at making the moment far more dramatic than necessary. Annette said she planned to be cremated. Samantha confessed she had not considered any of her options.

  Fortunately, Judy had better sense than to allow such a spectacle. She and her daughter were seated in the front row, just a few feet from the casket. As advertised, she was gorgeous, a slender brunette with eyes as dark as Donovan’s. Their daughter, Haley, was six years old and had been struggling with her parents’ separation. Now she was thoroughly overwhelmed by her father’s death. She clutched her mother and never stopped crying.

  Samantha’s car was packed and pointed north. She wanted desperately to leave Brady and race home to D.C., where her mother promised to be waiting with take-out sushi and a fine bottle of Chablis. Tomorrow, Thanksgiving, they would sleep late and have a long lunch at an Afghan kabob dive that was always packed on the holiday with Americans who either disliked turkey or wanted to avoid family.

  Mattie finally succumbed to a wave of emotion. She apologized and sat down. Another hymn. A few more observations from the Reverend Condry, borrowing from the wisdom of the apostle Paul. And another lengthy eulogy, this from a close friend from their law school days at William & Mary. After an hour, a lot of the crying was over and folks were ready to go. When the reverend closed with the
benediction, the crowd left. Most reassembled behind the church and huddled around a purple burial tent next to the grave. The reverend was brief. His remarks seemed off the cuff but on point. He prayed eloquently, and as he wound down Samantha began inching away. It was customary for each person to file past the grieving family and offer a few words of comfort, but Samantha had had enough.

  Enough of the local customs. Enough of Brady. Enough of the Gray brothers and all their drama and baggage. With a full tank and an empty bladder, she drove with a purpose for five hours nonstop to her mother’s apartment in central D.C. For a few moments, she stood on the sidewalk beside her car and took in the sights and sounds, the traffic and congestion and closeness of so many people living so near to each other. This was her world. She longed for SoHo and the frenetic energy of the big city.

  Karen was already in her pajamas. Samantha quickly unpacked and changed. For two hours they sat on cushions in the den, eating and sipping wine, laughing and talking at the same time.

  The litigation fund that promised to bankroll the fraud and conspiracy case against Lonerock Coal and Casper Slate had already yanked the money. The deal was off. Donovan had filed the lawsuit as a lone gunman with the promise that other plaintiffs’ lawyers would soon hop on board to form a first-rate litigation team. Now, though, with him dead and his pals ducking for cover, the case was going nowhere. Marshall Kofer was greatly frustrated by this. It was a “gorgeous lawsuit,” one that he would tee up in an instant if only he could.

  He wasn’t giving up. He explained to Samantha that he was running the case through his vast network of trial lawyer contacts from coast to coast, and was confident he could put together the right team, one that would attract sufficient funding from another investment group. He was willing to put up some of his own money and to take an active role in the litigation. He envisioned himself as the coach on the sideline, sending in plays to his quarterback.

  They were at lunch the day after Thanksgiving. Samantha preferred to avoid the topics of lawsuits, Donovan, the Ryzer case, Lonerock Coal, and so forth, anything, really, to do with Brady, Virginia, and Appalachia. But as she toyed with her salad, she realized that she should be thankful for litigation. Without it, she and her father would have so little to discuss. With it, they could talk for hours.

  He spoke quietly, his eyes flitting here and there as if the restaurant might be filled with spies. “I have a source at NTSB,” he said, as smug as always when he had some inside dirt. “Donovan did not make a distress call. He was flying at seven thousand feet in clear weather, no sign of trouble, then he vanished from the radar. If there was an engine problem, he had ample time to report it and give his exact location. But, nothing.”

  “Maybe he just panicked,” Samantha said.

  “I’m sure he panicked. The plane starts going down; hell, they all panic.”

  “Can they determine if he was using the autopilot?”

  “No. A small plane like that doesn’t have a black box, so there’s no data on what was happening. Why do you ask about the autopilot?”

  “Because he told me once, when we were flying, that he sometimes takes a nap. The hum of the engine makes him sleepy, and so he simply flips on the autopilot and dozes off. I’m not sure how you engage it, but what if he fell asleep and somehow hit the wrong button? Is that possible?”

  “A lot of things are possible, Samantha, and I like that theory better than the foul play scenario. I find it hard to believe that his airplane was sabotaged. That’s murder, and it’s far too risky for any of the bad guys he was dealing with. Lonerock Coal, Krull Mining, Casper Slate—all bad actors, sure, but would they run the risk of committing murder and getting caught? I don’t think so. And a high-profile murder at that? One that is certain to be fully investigated? I don’t buy it.”

  “Well Jeff certainly does.”

  “He has a different perspective and I appreciate that. I sympathize with him. But what do they gain by knocking off Donovan? In the Krull Mining case, there are three other law firms at the plaintiff’s table, all, I might add, with far more experience with toxic torts than Donovan.”

  “But he has the documents.”

  Marshall pondered this for a moment. “Do the other three firms have the documents?”

  “I don’t think so. I get the impression they’re buried somewhere.”

  “Well, anyway, Krull doesn’t know that, not yet anyway. In fact, if I were counsel for Krull, I would assume all the lawyers on the plaintiff’s team have access to the documents. So, again, what do they gain by knocking off only one of the four lawyers?”

  “So, if we follow your line of reasoning, then Lonerock Coal and Casper Slate would have enormous incentive to take him out. He’s the lone gunman, as you say. There’s no other name on the lawsuit. He dies one day and within forty-eight hours the litigation funds are gone. Lawsuit’s over. They win.”

  Marshall was shaking his head. He glanced around again; no one had noticed they were there. “Look, Samantha, I loathe companies like Lonerock and law firms like Casper Slate. I made a career fighting goons like them. Hate them, okay? But they are reputable—hell, Lonerock is publicly traded. You’ll never convince me they’re capable of murdering a lawyer who’s sued them. Krull is another matter; it’s a rogue outfit owned by a rich thug who roams the world causing trouble. Krull is capable of anything, but, again, why? Knocking off Donovan will not help its case in the long run.”

  “Let’s talk about something else.”

  “I’m sorry. He was your friend and I liked him a lot. He reminded me of my younger days.”

  “It’s pretty devastating, really. I have to go back, but I’m not sure I want to.”

  “You have clients now. Real people with real problems.”

  “I know, Dad. I’m a real lawyer, not some pencil pusher in a corporate firm. You win.”

  “I didn’t say that, and this is not a contest.”

  “You’ve said it for three years, and everything is a contest with you.”

  “A bit edgy, are we?” Marshall said as he reached across the small table and touched her hand. “I’m sorry. I know it’s been an emotional week.”

  Her eyes suddenly watered as her throat tightened. She said, “I’d like to go now.”

  25

  There were four of them, all large, angry, rough-looking people, two men and two women, ages forty-five to sixty, she guessed, with gray hair and rolls of fat and cheap clothes. They were in town for a rare Thanksgiving visit with their momma but were now forced to stay over, to miss work, to deal with a legal mess that was not of their making. As Samantha approached on foot, she saw them loitering around the front door, waiting impatiently for the legal clinic to open, and she instinctively knew who they were and what they wanted. She thought about ducking into Betty’s Quilts and hiding for an hour or so, but then what would she and Betty talk about? Instead, she walked around the block and entered the offices from the rear. She turned on lights, made coffee, and eventually drifted to the front, where she opened the door. They were still waiting, still angry; things had been simmering for some time.

  “Good morning,” she said as happily as possible. A blind person could see that the next hour would be most unpleasant.

  The leader, the oldest, growled, “We’re looking for Samantha Kofer.” He took a step forward, as did the other three.

  Still smiling, she said, “That’s me. What can I do for you?”

  A sister whipped out a folded document and asked, “Did you write this for Francine Crump?”

  The other brother added, “It’s our mother’s will.” He seemed ready to spit in her face.

  They followed her into the conference room and gathered around the table. Samantha politely offered them coffee, and when all four refused she went to the kitchen and slowly poured herself a cup. She was stalling, waiting for someone else to arrive. It was 8:30, and normally Mattie would be holed up in her office chatting with Donovan. Today, though, she doubted Mattie
would arrive before noon. With a fresh cup, she sat at the end of the table. Jonah, age sixty-one, lived in Bristol. Irma, age sixty, lived in Louisville. Euna Faye, age fifty-seven, lived in Rome, Georgia. Lonnie, age fifty-one, lived in Knoxville. DeLoss, the “baby” at forty-five, was living in Durham, and at the moment he was home with Momma, who was very upset. It had been a rough Thanksgiving. Samantha took notes and tried to burn some clock so they might take a breath and settle down. After ten minutes of one-way chitchat, though, it was obvious they were itching for a fight.

  “What the hell is the Mountain Trust?” Jonah asked.

  Samantha described the trust in great detail.

  Euna Faye said, “Momma said she ain’t never heard of no Mountain Trust. Said you’re the one who come up with it. That so?”

  Samantha patiently explained that Mrs. Crump sought her advice on how to bequeath her property. She wanted to leave it to someone or some organization that would protect it and keep it from being strip-mined. Samantha did her research and found two nonprofits in Appalachia that were appropriate.

  They listened carefully but did not hear a word.

  “Why didn’t you notify us?” Lonnie demanded rudely. Fifteen minutes into the meeting it was apparent that there was no real pecking order in this family. Each of them wanted to be in charge. Each was trying to be the chief hard-ass. Though she was on her heels, Samantha stayed calm and tried to understand. These were not wealthy people; in fact they were struggling to stay in the middle class. Any inheritance would be a windfall, one that was certainly needed. The family plot was eighty acres, far more than any of them would ever own.

  Samantha explained that her client was Francine Crump, not the family of Francine Crump. Her client did not want her children to know what she was doing.

  “You think she don’t trust us, her own flesh and blood?” demanded Irma.