The Amber Room Read Free Page B

immigrating?”
    “Jeweler.”
    “You have petitioned this court for a change of name. Why do you wish to be known as Karol Borya?”
    “It is my birth name. My father named me Karol. It means ‘strong-willed.’ I was youngest of six children and almost die at birth. When I immigrate to this country, I thought, must protect identity. I work for government commissions while in Soviet Union. I hated Communists. They ruin my homeland, and I speak out. Stalin sent many countrymen to Siberian camps. I thought harm would come to my family. Very few could leave then. But before my death, I want my heritage returned.”
    “Are you ill?”
    “No. But I wonder how long this tired body will hold out.”
    She looked at the old man standing before her, his frame shrunken with age but still distinguished. The eyes were inscrutable and deep-set, hair stark white, voice gravelly and enigmatic. “You look marvelous for a man your age.”
    He smiled.
    “Do you seek this change to defraud, evade prosecution, or hide from a creditor?”
    “Never.”
    “Then I grant your petition. You shall be Karol Borya once again.”
    She signed the order attached to the petition and handed the file to the clerk. Stepping from the bench, she approached the old man. Tears slipped down his stubbled cheeks. Her eyes had reddened, as well. She hugged him and softly said, “I love you, Daddy.”

The Amber Room

 THREE
    4:50 p.m.
    Paul Cutler stood from the oak armchair and addressed the court, his lawyerly patience wearing thin. “Your Honor, the estate does not contest movant’s services. Instead, we merely challenge the amount he’s attempting to charge. Twelve thousand three hundred dollars is a lot of money to paint a house.”
    “It was a big house,” the creditor’s lawyer said.
    “I would hope,” the probate judge added.
    Paul said, “The house is two thousand square feet. Not a thing unusual about it. The paint job was routine. Movant is not entitled to the amount charged.”
    “Judge, the decedent contracted with my client for a complete house painting, which my client did.”
    “What the movant did, Judge, was take advantage of a seventy-three-year-old man. He did not render twelve thousand three hundred dollars’ worth of services.”
    “The decedent promised my client a bonus if he finished within a week, and he did.”
    He couldn’t believe the other lawyer was pressing the point with a straight face. “That’s convenient, considering the only other person to contradict that promise is dead. The bottom line is that our firm is the named executor on the estate, and we cannot in good conscience pay this bill.”
    “You want a trial on it?” the crinkly judge asked the other side.
    The creditor’s lawyer bent down and whispered with the housepainter, a younger man noticeably uncomfortable in a tan polyester suit and tie. “No, sir. Perhaps a compromise. Seven thousand five hundred.”
    Paul never flinched. “One thousand two hundred and fifty. Not a dime more. We employed another painter to view the work. From what I’ve been told, we have a good suit for shoddy workmanship. The paint also appears to have been watered down. As far as I’m concerned, we’ll let the jury decide.” He looked at the other lawyer. “I get two hundred and twenty dollars an hour while we fight. So take your time, counselor.”
    The other lawyer never even consulted his client. “We don’t have the resources to litigate this matter, so we have no choice but to accept the estate’s offer.”
    “I bet. Bloody damn extortionist,” Paul muttered, just loud enough for the other lawyer to hear, as he gathered his file.
    “Draw an order, Mr. Cutler,” the judge said.
    Paul quickly left the hearing room and marched down the corridors of the Fulton County probate division. It was three floors down from the mélange of Superior Court and a world apart. No sensational murders, high-profile litigation, or contested divorces. Wills, trusts, and