That afternoon, while Ramona was back at work at the bank, Robert Ellsworth Nettleton appeared in court, where the last of his legal issues was brought to settlement. He hadn't told his sister about this for a couple of reasons. He didn't know how things would turn out, for sure, and he didn't want her to worry. He also planned on putting more of his plan in motion and didn't want to argue about that with her.
Robert, by use of well paid and experienced experts, showed beyond any doubt that the claims against his estate for "services rendered" were not onlyh frivolous and without merit, but likely even attempts to steal from the estate. The gavel sounded repeatedly as the ambulance chaser hired by greedy businessmen to plunder the Nettleton fortune sagged lower and lower into his chair. He had enjoyed visions of a hefty income, based on thirty percent of what he anticipated "recovering" for his clients. He had already spent those hundreds of thousands of dollars in his mind. He had thought that, when the judge scheduled all six cases for one hearing, that the judge had already decided to grant all his claims. Why else would a judge try to do that much business all at the same time? Instead, he began to wonder if he would still have a job when he went back to the city and reported complete failure. He berated himself for filing these cases in a jurisdiction that was in the middle of nowhere. He should have known not to let this hick judge hear these cases.
"Mister Cochran," barked the judge when it was all over.
The lawyer stood and looked up at the old man on the bench. What did the old fart want now?
"If you ever appear in my court room again trying to commit robbery, I'll have your license and if things go like I want I'll have your balls too. Have I made myself perfectly clear?"
Jeff Cochran was stung. Nobody treated him that way back in the city. He was stiff with outrage as he responded. "Your honor," there was a hint of sarcasm as he said that, "I merely pursued the objectives of reputable businessmen and believed their claims to be legitimate. You can't fault me for that. That, sir, is what lawyers do."
The judge scowled. "You just remember what I said, young man. I doubt you will, because you appear to me to be an idiot. Next time some fly-by-night contractor hires you, at least go look at what he claims to have done. Now, get out of my courtroom. I have real cases to hear!"
Robert, who had stood quietly as the exchanges took place, merely bowed toward the judge, by habit, and said, "Thank you your honor."
The judge waved his hand. "Welcome back, sir. Some time perhaps we can have lunch. I'd like to hear what you've been up to all these years."
Robert left the courtroom and went directly to another office in the courthouse, where he paid a reasonable fee for copies of certain documents on file there. These he placed in his briefcase before leaving the courthouse.
When he went outside there was a man waiting for him. The man had a notebook and pencil in his hand.
"Mister Nettleton!" he called "Randy Stevens, of the Howard County Picayune. Could I have an interview please?"
"Certainly, Mister Stevens," said Robert. "But first, a question for you, if you don't mind. What, exactly, is a 'picayune'?"
Randy looked confused. "It's a newspaper, sir," he said.
"I understand that," said Robert patiently, "But from where does that word come? What did it mean before somebody decided to use it as the name for a newspaper?"
Randy was still confused. He was all of twenty-six years old and, after graduating from college, had gone home to live with his parents and work for the biggest newspaper in the county. It had over two thousand subscribers, which seemed like an awful lot to Randy.
"I don't rightly know the answer to that, Mr. Nettleton."
"Ah," said Robert sagely. "No matter. I was just curious." Robert had been having a little fun, trying to needle the reporter. He was quite aware that a 'picayune' was a half dime coin that had been in use in the South in years past. The dictionary definition these days was "something of little value".
Randy, on his first real live mission as a 'society reporter' just nodded and launched into what he thought were penetrating and important questions about what 'the famous Mister Nettleton' had been doing since the tragic death of his parents. All this was the result of his editor, one Hortence Robinson, age sixty, who had seen the court docket and recognized the Nettleton name from her youth. She had instructed her 'ace reporter' to "get on down there to Nettleton and get me something to put in the paper. It's been a slow week for news and I need to fill a couple of columns!"
Thus it was that Howard County and the city of Nettleton, found out that Robert Nettleton, the child of murdered parents, was back in his ancestral home, which was being refurbished in an attempt to restore it to its historical splendor. Roughly two thousand and twenty people (twenty bought the paper from a machine at the local grocery store) were pleased to read that a nice young man who had done a whole lot of missionary work overseas in six different countries, had come back to spend some of his inheritance in Howard County. The only sad part of the story was that, over the years, he had lost touch with his sister, who had gone on to live her life in anonymity somewhere. If, as Randy pointed out sadly, she was even still alive. Hortence filled her two columns and was happy. What with people sharing newspapers like they did so often (to her disgruntlement), it was quite possible that as many as twenty-five hundred people in the county had read the story. And if they talked about it to their friends, maybe the other thirty thousand residents of the county would be spurred to buy a damned paper themselves!
TBC