The Signing Hour Came Apart Under The Courtroom Clock

Ruth's drainage agreement had the same notary seal as the will.

Not merely the same name. A tiny break in the outside ring sat above the same letter. A stray black speck rested below it. On the will, both marks had been enlarged along with the seal.

"My stamp made that speck once," Ruth said. "A crumb of dried ink fell on the page. I brushed it away."

She had kept a scan of the agreement in her work files. The original had gone to Solomon.

Mara hired a document examiner. Evelyn obtained the paper Solomon had offered as Selam's original will. The examiner kept a record of each person who handled it.

The seal on that paper had been printed with toner. The names above it had been added in pen.

"That doesn't tell us who held the pen," Mara warned me.

"I understand."

"We still need the people."

They came.

One supposed witness was a heating mechanic who had worked at the foundry. The other was Selam's tax preparer. Both knew her. Neither had witnessed this will. Their names also appeared on the drainage agreement as witnesses to separate signatures.

The hospital records arrived through the process Mara had requested. Ingrid did not carry them out in her grocery bag. A records custodian sent a certified set to the lawyer under the proper release and court order.

At the second hearing, the courtroom clock was four minutes slow.

I noticed. I said nothing.

Ruth testified first. She described her journal and the loan to me. I identified her receipt. The library director confirmed Ruth had led the reading group that morning. Its attendance sheet carried eleven names.

Voss asked whether Ruth ever forgot to write an appointment down.

"Sometimes," she said.

Solomon straightened.

"Did you forget this one?" Voss asked.

"No. I never witnessed Selam sign a will. That printed seal was taken from another document."

The two named witnesses each denied signing the will. The mechanic held it near his face, then shook his head.

"I don't make my B that way."

Ingrid took the chair next.

She described the blue coat, the hospital waiting room, and the surgeon's visit. Then Mara led the court through the treatment times in the hospital records.

Selam had been under anesthesia from nine twelve until eleven fifty-eight. At ten twenty, the operating room notes placed her on the surgical table.

"Could she have signed in Lewiston at that time?" Mara asked Ingrid.

"She couldn't have signed in that room at that time."

Ingrid folded her hands.

No one laughed. No one needed to.

Solomon testified that Selam had handed him a sealed envelope. He said he had trusted its contents.

"When?" Mara asked.

"Before she died."

"Your petition said you found it in her desk after she died."

He rubbed the side of his nose.

"I meant that was where she told me to find it."

"On which day?"

"She was ill. I wasn't keeping a journal."

He glanced at me when he said it.

Mara asked about his access to the drainage agreement. He admitted he had its original. She asked about the missing cabinet.

"Girma knows more about that than I do," he said. "He was always taking things out to his shop."

Evelyn stood when the judge allowed her to speak.

She had received the warehouse invoice that morning. Attached was a truck ticket dated May 21. Solomon had signed as the person releasing the cabinet for transport.

"I was helping my aunt," he said.

"Then we should be able to follow the records," the judge replied.

The court rejected the offered will. The order cited the false signing account and the failure of the supposed witnesses, among other evidence. Evelyn would continue protecting the estate while any genuine will was sought. The judge reserved the question of costs and directed that the suspected forgery be referred for investigation.

I felt no rush of triumph.

I felt my shoulders come down.

Outside, Solomon caught up with me on the steps.

"You think you've won a building with a wet roof."

"I think she deserved her own words."

"Words cost money, Girma."

He walked away before I answered.

Mara's phone rang while we stood beside the railing. She listened, wrote something on her pad, and looked at me.

"Martin Hale's files were found. There's an original will in a sealed envelope, with both witnesses listed in his file notes. A courier is bringing it tomorrow."

"Does it mention the cabinet?"

"The file index does. It says, 'Pattern Collection And Stored-Property Instructions.'"