“That’s a tough one, Your Honor.”
“So it is. But the alternative—today—is for me to assume that you are an imposter most carefully coached and then to question you endlessly in an attempt to trip you. I don’t want to do that . . . because final identification—now that the matter has been raised—will have to be by evidence as conclusive as fingerprints. You see that, don’t you?”
“Yes, I see it but I don’t quite see how.” She smiled and spread her graceful hands. “My fingerprints—and everything about me that can be seen—are those of my donor.”
“Yes, yes, surely—but there are more ways of killing a cat than buttering it with parsnips. Later.”
“Harrumph!”
“Yes, Jake?”
“Judge, in the interests of my client I cannot concede that physical means of identifying this body are relevant. The question is: Is this the individual designated by Social Security number 551-20-0052 and known to the world as Johann Sebastian Bach Smith? I suggest that ‘Estate of Henry M. Parsons v. Rhode Island,’ while not on all fours, is relevant.”
McCampbell said mildly, “Jake, you are much older than I am and I’m reasonably sure you know the law more thoroughly than I do. Nevertheless, here today, I am the Judge.”
“Certainly, Your Honor! May it please the Court, I—”
“So quit being so damned respectful in my chambers. You sat on my orals and voted to pass me, so you must think I know some law. Of course the Parsons case is relevant; we’ll get to it later. In the meantime I’m trying to find a basis for a pro-tem ruling. Well, Miss Smith?”
“Judge, I don’t care whether I’m identified or not. In the words of a gallant gentleman: ‘Broke don’t scare me.’” She suddenly chuckled and glanced at her granddaughters. “May I tell you something funny—privately?”
“Mmm…I could clear the room of everyone but you and your counsel; nevertheless you had better save any jokes until after we adjourn.”
“Yes, sir. May I address one irrelevant remark to my granddaughters?”
“Hmmph. I may strike it from the record. Go ahead.”
“Thank you, Judge. Girls—Johanna, Maria, June, Elinor—look at me. For thirty-odd years you have been waiting for me to die. Now you hope to prove that I am dead, else this silly business would never have come up. Girls, I hope you get away with it…for I can’t wait to see your faces when my will is read.” (You zapped ‘em, Boss! Look at those expressions!) (I surely did, darling. Now shut up; we’re not home free.)
“Your Honor—”
“Yes, Alec?”
“May I suggest that this is not relevant?”
Joan cut in. “But I said it would be irrelevant, Mr. Train. Just the same, they had better start thinking about how to break my will, instead of this nonsense.” She added thoughtfully, “Perhaps I had better set up a lifetime trust that will make them slightly better off with me alive than dead…to protect myself against patricidal assassination. Judge, is ‘patricidal’ the right word? Now that I’m female?”
“Blessed if I know. Better make it ‘avicidal’—no, ‘avicide’ already means the killing of birds and has nothing to do with ‘avus.’ Never mind. Miss Smith, take up such matters with your attorney and let us return to our muttons. Have you thought of anything which Jake Salomon could not have coached you on?”
“It’s difficult. Jake has been handling my affairs for I most of a generation. Mmm, Judge, will you shake hands with me?”
“Eh?”
“We had best do it under the table, or out of sight of anyone but Mr. Train.”
Looking puzzled, the Judge went along with her request. Then he said, “Be damned! Excuse me. Miss -Smith—shake hands with Alec.”
Joan did so, letting her body cover it from spectators. Mr. Train looked surprised, whispered something to her which she answered in a whisper. (Boss, what was what?) (Greek. Tell you later, dear—though girls aren’t supposed to know.)
McCampbell said, “Mr. Salomon could not have coached you?”
“Ask him. Jake was a Barb, not a Greek.”
“Of course I was a Barb,” Salornon growled. “I had no stomach for being the exhibit Jew in a chapter that did not want its charter lifted. What is this?”