Sasha McCandless 02 - Inadvertent Disclosure

  INADVERTENT DISCLOSURE

  Melissa F. Miller

  Brown Street Books

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 Melissa F. Miller

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Brown Street Books.

  For more information about the author,

  please visit www.melissafmiller.com.

  For more information about the publisher,

  please visit www. brownstbooks.com.

  Brown Street Books eBook ISBN: 978-0-9834927-3-3

  For my sister Theresa, my brother Trevor, and Kevin,

  true stewards of the earth,

  and

  for my children, Adam, Jack, and Sara,

  who will reap the benefits.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My first book was a labor of love. This second book carries with it the weight of expectations—both yours and mine. As such, it was, in some ways, more challenging to write. As always, I could not have written it without the abundant good humor, constant love, and occasional tough love of my husband and first reader, David Miller. I also want to thank my friends and family, whose support and encouragement have been phenomenal. Although I cannot name everyone who has inspired and supported me here, I would be remiss if I did not thank Missy and Geoff Owen and Beth Henke for their friendship, both generally and specific to this venture. I also wish to thank the real Gavin Russell, whose generous donation to the Amelia Givin Library earned him a place in these pages. And, of course, I thank the fine folks at Brown Street Books. Finally, my sincere thanks to each reader who wrote me a note or stopped me on the street to ask, “So, where’s the next book?” Here it is.

  INADVERTENT DISCLOSURE

  PROLOGUE

  Springport, Pennsylvania

  July 29, 1974

  The height of the oil crisis

  The sisters sat on the wide front steps of their soon-to-be old house and watched. The older girl, almost twelve, had willed herself not to cry, but she couldn’t stop her cheeks from burning with rage. Her sister, two years younger, wasn’t able to quell the flow of tears down her cheeks, which were also bright red, but from shame, not anger. The repo men studiously avoided their eyes as they walked back and forth between the house and the van, loading it with their bikes, their ice skates, even the old stuffed bears that still slept on their twin beds out of inertia more than any need.

  When she saw them taking her microscope kit, along with the specimen slides she’d spent the whole last year collecting and mounting, the younger girl lost what little control she had over her emotions and let out a pained wail. The cry drew the attention of their mother, who had been taking great care in loading the trunk of the borrowed station wagon with her family’s heirlooms—the only possessions they owned that their father hadn’t pledged in a fruitless attempt to save his oil-fired furnace business. Their mother laid her grandmother’s jewelry box on the cloth she’d had to borrow from the family’s former maid along with the car—even their linens had been taken by the note holder—and rushed over to the steps.

  “Stop it,” the older girl hissed, annoyed that they were drawing the attention of creepy D.J. McAllister across the street, whose smirk gave away his feigned ignorance of what was happening to his neighbors. One thing the girls wouldn’t miss about their house was the presence of Daniel, Jr., or D.J. nearby. His good breeding, as their mother liked to call it, wasn’t strong enough to outweigh his teenage hormones, and it totally grossed them out the way he leered at their mom in her hot pants.

  The girl struggled to catch her breath between sobs. The older girl was about to give her arm a good, painful pinch to distract her, when a white satin-covered book peeking out of the crook of one of the men’s sweaty arm caught her eye.

  “Mom,” she shouted, as her mother came over to put a comforting arm around her still-bawling sister, “they’re taking my diary!” She had the little gold key hidden in the pocket of her jean shorts, but everybody knew all you needed was a bent bobby pin to pop the cheap lock. That book contained her private thoughts. Including the way looking at creepy D.J. sometimes made her feel funny. She’d die if anyone ever read it. “This is bullshit!”

  “Language,” her mother said in a firm voice. Then, a second later, “No, you’re right, this is bullshit.” She marched over and tapped the repo man on the shoulder.

  He turned. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Do you really think it’s necessary to take my daughter’s diary? It has no resale value. This is just cruel.”

  They watched while the man weighed this, looking at the shiny white book in his arm. He shrugged and handed it over. “You’re right, I guess.”

  The girl ran up and snatched it from her mother’s hands and clutched it to her chest. Her mother didn’t even try to remind her to say thank you. Manners were worthless in their situation.

  The man’s eyes shifted to the younger sister, still crying on the stairs.

  “I guess it’s only fair if she gets to pick out one thing to keep, too, huh? It’s not their fault, after all.”

  “No, no, it’s not,” their mother agreed. “This is their father’s fault.”

  She motioned for the girl to come join them, and she did, still sniffling.

  “What do you want to keep?” the repo man asked, eager to get this over with.

  “My microscope, please,” she muttered.

  “Ah, jeez, that looks expensive.”

  “It’s really not,” her mother explained, “it’s just a junior kit. She’s worked so hard on her slides.”

  Her mother reached out and traced a finger along the man’s bare arm.

  “Please?” she said her voice breathy and low.

  The man glanced over at their father, who sat staring up at their mansion, oblivious to everything but his own pain, and then back at their mother.

  The girl held her breath and hoped he’d say yes. Finally, he did.

  “Okay, sure.”

  She ran over and grabbed the microscope and her slides from the carton on the curb before he could change his mind.

  Her mother’s hand lingered on his arm. “How can I ever thank you?”

  He looked away and continued down the steps like it had never happened.

  The girls hugged their mother tight, and they walked together to the glider under the big red maple tree in the front yard and waited for the nightmare day to end.

  * * * * * * * * * *

  As it turned out, that nightmare day was just the beginning. Within three months of losing the gracious Victorian mansion with its turrets and hidden passages, they’d go on to lose the double-wide trailer their parents had rented on a patch of weeds outside of town. While their mother had taken in sewing and done babysitting to earn what money she could, and they’d traded riding lessons and the latest fashions for nasty hand-me-down clothes from the Salvation Army, their dad had just sat in a lawn chair in front of the trailer and done . . . nothing. Until two days before Halloween, when he’d finally done something: He’d drunk most of a bottle of Wild Turkey, then he’d pointed the barrel of their neighbor’s hunting rifle into his mouth and pulled the trigger.

  “The coward’s way out,” their mother had shouted when she found his bloodied, faceless form, already swarming with ants and grosser insects by the time they’d returned from the food pantry with their bags of government cheese and generic soups.

  With no life insurance proceeds, thanks to the suicide exclusi
on, they couldn’t pay the rent, let alone afford to bury the man who’d led them to this place. They moved into a cramped studio apartment with thin walls and low water pressure, where they lived for free in exchange for their mother acting as the super for the building. The three of them slept in one room, which they called the bedroom despite it lacking a bed. They ate meat once a week, on Wednesdays, right in the middle, and the girls learned how to sew well enough to turn their thrift store donations into something resembling fashionable clothes.

  The older girl wrote every day in the white diary, until the day she turned eighteen and ran off with the man who would turn out to be her first of several husbands, leaving it behind on the dresser she shared with her sister and mother. Her sister never left the microscope behind. When she went off to college in Ohio on a scholarship, the microscope was nestled on the bottom of the one cardboard box she took with her, wrapped in a sweater her mother had crocheted.

  CHAPTER 1

  Firetown, Pennsylvania

  The present day

  Monday, 4:30 a.m.

  Jed Craybill stared up at his ceiling and waited. Tall orange flames licked the sky, reflected in his bedroom window. The flares of gas whooshed as loud as any airplane. With each whoosh, the floorboards shook and his bed rocked back until the headboard hit the wall behind him.

  He’d known for months that this night was coming: after a well pad was completed, the controlled burn off of surface gas began. The fires would burn day and night for days, maybe better than a week. All the while, the smell of methane would fill the sky like a low-lying cloud and seep in through his walls.

  The gas company had been busy since the fall, working to create a well pad on the edge of his neighbor’s lot. First it was the incessant buzz of chainsaws, as they downed the old walnut trees. Then the chippers. Next the bulldozers came, and with them, the huge lights, so they could work through the night, moving the earth so it could be leveled. Trucks rumbled along the road, gears shifting, doors slamming, loud voices calling to each other, around the clock. All working toward this day.

  He was just glad Marla hadn’t lived to see it. She’d always been a light sleeper. The slightest noise, even the wind in the trees, used to wake her. Toward the end, the only respite she’d had was a sound sleep.

  He was the opposite. Even the flares, with their noise, light, and stink wouldn’t have kept him awake if he’d been able to fall asleep in the first place. But he had bigger problems than his idiot neighbors letting the gas company rape their land, and he couldn’t seem to quiet his mind.

  He lay there and waited for the weak April sun to peek over the mountains and paint the sky a faded pink. Then, he’d shower, dress, and make his stand.

  CHAPTER 2

  Clear Brook County Courthouse

  Springport, Pennsylvania

  Monday morning

  Judge Paulson glared down from the bench at the attorney opposing Sasha McCandless’s motion to compel discovery.

  “The Court will not tolerate such behavior going forward, Mr. Showalter. Your client will produce the electronic messages it has withheld by the end of this week in digital format or face monetary sanctions for discovery abuses. Are we clear?”

  Drew Showalter bobbed his head but didn’t meet the judge’s eyes. “Crystal, your honor.”

  The judge turned to Sasha. “Anything else, Ms. McCandless?”

  She glanced down at her legal pad. She’d made and won all of her points. But, she saw no reason to squander an opportunity. She drew herself to her full four feet, eleven and three-quarters inches in height and said, “Your honor, VitaMight requests that this Court award it its attorneys’ fees and costs in preparing and arguing this motion.”

  Maybe she could get VitaMight’s commercial landlord to foot the bill for her prep work, not to mention the seven-plus hours round-trip travel time they’d have to pay her for driving all the way up to northern Pennsylvania to argue the motion. VitaMight would be impressed.

  Judge Paulson, however, was not.

  “Let’s not get greedy, Ms. McCandless. Denied. We’re done here, counsel.”

  He made no move to leave the bench, though.

  Showalter ducked his head, tucked his lone folder under his arm, and hurried past Sasha, mumbling that he’d forward her the files.

  Sasha smiled, savoring her victory, while she crammed her binders and legal pads back into her leather bag.

  She paused long enough to think that, just maybe, if Showalter had placed as much importance on preparation as he apparently did on traveling light, his argument might not have been so laughably bad. His claim that his client, a commercial properties investment trust with diverse holdings, lacked the ability to search its e-mails was a pretty pathetic defense. Almost as pathetic as his client’s abrupt decision to terminate VitaMight’s long-term lease of a distribution warehouse for no apparent reason.

  And that uncharitable thought, she later decided, was her undoing.

  If she had just shoved her papers into the bag and gotten out of the courtroom a few minutes sooner, she wouldn’t have been at counsel table when the red-faced old man came shuffling through the wide oak doors. But she hadn’t, and she was.

  So, when he banged through the bar separating the gallery from the well of the courtroom, she had the bad luck to be directly in Judge Paulson’s line of sight.

  “Harry, you old bastard! What do you think you’re doing?” The elderly man crossed the well, waving a fistful of papers at the bench.

  The deputy leaning against the wall next to the American flag made a halfhearted motion toward his gun, but the judge waved him off.

  “Mr. Craybill! Step back!” Judge Paulson leaned forward and warned him, but the old man didn’t stop.

  “I’m no more incompetent than you are. Who’s responsible for this?”

  Judge Paulson caught Sasha’s eye and motioned for the man to stop talking.

  “Mr. Craybill, do you have counsel?”

  “What?”

  “An attorney to represent you in your incapacitation hearing, Jed.”

  “You know damn well, I can’t afford an attorney, you no-good . . .”

  Judge Paulson spoke right over the tirade. “Ms. McCandless, congratulations. The court hereby appoints you counsel to represent Mr. Craybill in the hearing on the county’s motion to have him declared incompetent and have a guardian appointed to handle his affairs.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, and Craybill wheeled around and glared at her.

  He turned back to the bench and said, “Her? She can’t be old enough to be a lawyer, for crissake, look at her.”

  Sasha’s cheeks burned, but she saw her opening and took it.

  “Your honor, it sounds like Mr. Craybill here isn’t pleased with the appointment. And, frankly, your honor, I have no experience in elder law. That, coupled with the fact that my office is nearly four hours away in Pittsburgh, leads me to regretfully decline your kind offer.”

  “It’s not an offer, Ms. McCandless. It’s an order. Old Jed here’ll come around. He might even say sorry for insulting you.” The judge stared at her over his half-moon glasses.

  She caught herself before a sigh escaped. “Yes, your honor.”

  The judge turned to the old man and said, “Now, tell your new lawyer you’re sorry, Jed.”

  The man muttered something that may have been an apology, although Sasha was sure she heard “featherweight” and “child” in there somewhere.

  Looking pleased with himself, the Honorable Harrison Paulson unfolded his legs and stood to his full height of nearly six and a half feet. He headed toward the door to his chambers.

  “Your honor,” Sasha said, as he walked away, “when do I need to return for the hearing?”

  She figured she could get that information from her new client, but she hoped if the hearing were less than two weeks away, the judge would grant her a continuance right then and there.

  Instead, he checked his watch, turned back to
her, and said, “In about an hour.” He pushed through the door and disappeared into his chambers while she struggled to keep her mouth from hanging open.

  Sasha’s new client lowered himself in the empty chair at counsel’s table and tossed the petition seeking to have him declared incompetent on the table in front of her, while Sasha stood staring at the space the judge had just vacated.

  An hour? How was she supposed to get ready for an incapacitation hearing in one hour? Sasha prided herself on her composure in the courtroom. But her calm demeanor came because she over-prepared. In the sort of cases she handled, the victor almost always was whichever party’s attorney was more prepared. So her rule was to prepare her case until she was sure she could handle every foreseeable issue, answer every question the judge could conceivably ask, and remove any doubt about her client’s argument and then prepare some more. An hour was barely enough time to read and digest the petition and whatever exhibits came with it. She checked the clock. Make that fifty-nine minutes.

  She flung herself into the empty chair and skimmed the petition’s opening paragraph to find the statute under which the county was acting and then thumbed the citation into her Blackberry. She scanned the statute, reading as fast as dared to take in the gist of the act without getting bogged down in the details. Once she had an understanding of the requirements the county would have to meet to have Craybill declared incompetent and a guardian appointed, she powered off her phone and looked at the man sitting next to her.

  “Let’s grab a bite and you can fill me in on what’s going on,” she said as she gathered her papers and headed out of the courtroom. She’d left Pittsburgh before five a.m. and was going on nothing but black coffee.