were a number of old, very dusty file cabinets. Slipping inside, I closed the door and quickly set about my task.
I knew that what I was doing was unethical. I had no reason— no official reason, that is—for being in this room, much less tampering with its highly confidential contents. Unofficially, I was prepared to stifle my conscience and take whatever steps necessary to save my client.
The esteem in which the city of San Francisco held Joseph Shepard's firm was borne out by the vast number of files I was forced to sort through. Samuel's discovery that all four mining partners used the same law firm had given me the idea, of course. The knowledge that their personal files were housed under one roof made searching for the records too great a temptation to resist.
I started with Hanaford's file. I’d already read the copy of the will in his home safe, but the folder I now held was thick with other documents. Everything seemed disappointingly ordinary until, at the very bottom of the file, I came upon several papers listing the holdings of Hanaford's estate. The final entry brought me up short. It read: Fifty thousand dollars in trust at First National Bank, 850 Clay Street, San Francisco . Intrigued, I examined the firm's copy of Hanaford's will. I was right! There was no mention of a fifty thousand dollar trust—and this I found most peculiar—held at a bank other than his own!
I dug through more files until I found Rufus Mills's folder, which also contained his last will and testament. My heart skipped a beat. There, again entered last, was the same notation for fifty
thousand dollars held in trust at First National Bank! My thoughts flew to the remaining partners. Was it possible they had similar funds?
It didn’t take long to find Senator Broughton's file. It was just as I’d suspected! He, too, had fifty thousand dollars in an account at First National. I had just located Wylde's folder when a voice boomed, “What in damnation do you think you’re doing?”
I was so startled I nearly dropped the file in my hand. Behind me in the open doorway, tousled red hair brushing the top of the wood frame, stood Robert Campbell, eyes glaring out accusingly from beneath fiercely knitted brows.
“Come in and close the door,” I snapped, annoyed he had caught me unawares. “And for heaven's sake, lower your voice!”
His scowl deepened and, typically, the obstinate man refused to budge. “I asked what you’re doing in here?” he repeated in what was, to my relief, a slightly lower decibel level. “Don’t you know these files are confidential?”
“The only thing I know , Mr. Campbell, is that Annjenett Hanaford is languishing in city jail, while the very men who are supposed to be championing her cause blithely accept that she's guilty of first-degree murder.”
“And what do you think you can accomplish?” he asked in a voice heavy with sarcasm.
“I can try to find out which of Mr. Hanaford's clients or acquaintances wished to see him dead, and who among them has no alibi for the night he was killed.” I waved Hanaford's file. “I can also attempt to discover why the owner of one of the largest financial institutions in the city would keep a fortune in someone else's bank”
This brought the troublesome man up short. Without so much as a by-your-leave, he yanked the papers out of my hand and scanned them skeptically, stopping at the final, puzzling entry.
“There must be a reasonable explanation for this.”
“Oh, really? Is there also a reasonable explanation why Rufus Mills, Senator Broughton, and—” I rifled through Wylde's file, then gave a little cry of triumph—”Benjamin Wylde should have matching deposits at the same bank?”
“I neither know, nor do I care. It certainly can’t have anything to do with Mrs. Hanaford's case.”
“We won’t know that until I’ve had time to investigate. The logical place to start, of course, is with Cornelius Hanaford, since his account at a
I knew that what I was doing was unethical. I had no reason— no official reason, that is—for being in this room, much less tampering with its highly confidential contents. Unofficially, I was prepared to stifle my conscience and take whatever steps necessary to save my client.
The esteem in which the city of San Francisco held Joseph Shepard's firm was borne out by the vast number of files I was forced to sort through. Samuel's discovery that all four mining partners used the same law firm had given me the idea, of course. The knowledge that their personal files were housed under one roof made searching for the records too great a temptation to resist.
I started with Hanaford's file. I’d already read the copy of the will in his home safe, but the folder I now held was thick with other documents. Everything seemed disappointingly ordinary until, at the very bottom of the file, I came upon several papers listing the holdings of Hanaford's estate. The final entry brought me up short. It read: Fifty thousand dollars in trust at First National Bank, 850 Clay Street, San Francisco . Intrigued, I examined the firm's copy of Hanaford's will. I was right! There was no mention of a fifty thousand dollar trust—and this I found most peculiar—held at a bank other than his own!
I dug through more files until I found Rufus Mills's folder, which also contained his last will and testament. My heart skipped a beat. There, again entered last, was the same notation for fifty
thousand dollars held in trust at First National Bank! My thoughts flew to the remaining partners. Was it possible they had similar funds?
It didn’t take long to find Senator Broughton's file. It was just as I’d suspected! He, too, had fifty thousand dollars in an account at First National. I had just located Wylde's folder when a voice boomed, “What in damnation do you think you’re doing?”
I was so startled I nearly dropped the file in my hand. Behind me in the open doorway, tousled red hair brushing the top of the wood frame, stood Robert Campbell, eyes glaring out accusingly from beneath fiercely knitted brows.
“Come in and close the door,” I snapped, annoyed he had caught me unawares. “And for heaven's sake, lower your voice!”
His scowl deepened and, typically, the obstinate man refused to budge. “I asked what you’re doing in here?” he repeated in what was, to my relief, a slightly lower decibel level. “Don’t you know these files are confidential?”
“The only thing I know , Mr. Campbell, is that Annjenett Hanaford is languishing in city jail, while the very men who are supposed to be championing her cause blithely accept that she's guilty of first-degree murder.”
“And what do you think you can accomplish?” he asked in a voice heavy with sarcasm.
“I can try to find out which of Mr. Hanaford's clients or acquaintances wished to see him dead, and who among them has no alibi for the night he was killed.” I waved Hanaford's file. “I can also attempt to discover why the owner of one of the largest financial institutions in the city would keep a fortune in someone else's bank”
This brought the troublesome man up short. Without so much as a by-your-leave, he yanked the papers out of my hand and scanned them skeptically, stopping at the final, puzzling entry.
“There must be a reasonable explanation for this.”
“Oh, really? Is there also a reasonable explanation why Rufus Mills, Senator Broughton, and—” I rifled through Wylde's file, then gave a little cry of triumph—”Benjamin Wylde should have matching deposits at the same bank?”
“I neither know, nor do I care. It certainly can’t have anything to do with Mrs. Hanaford's case.”
“We won’t know that until I’ve had time to investigate. The logical place to start, of course, is with Cornelius Hanaford, since his account at a
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