Chapter 16
CHAPTER
THE FOLLOWING MORNING JUDITH WAS gone from the bedroom before Nash woke.
He imagined he could hear the treadmill in the lower-level gym whirring away.
After getting ready for work he passed by Maggie’s room and thought he might tap on her door and say some conciliatory words that would soften what he had said before.
But he doubted she was even awake, and he doubted he could find the necessary phrases.
He bought a cup of coffee on his way to see Mort Dickey.
The man’s office was in a strip mall about a mile from his father’s home.
Dickey and Associates was sandwiched in between a vape shop and a dry cleaner.
A forty-year-old pale yellow Mercedes convertible was parked out front. Its vanity plate read THE LAW.
He had to buzz to be let in, and a woman in her sixties greeted him. “Mr. Dickey is expecting you, Mr. Nash. If you’ll wait out here, I’ll just go and get him.”
“Thanks,” said Nash as he looked around at an office space that clearly had not seen a serious refreshing in decades.
He sat and spied a Sports Illustrated magazine lying on a table. Nash did a double take because Michael Jordan in a Bulls uniform was on the cover. He thought it might have been some sort of recent commemorative edition until he saw the date of the publication on the cover.
Nineteen ninety-six?
He hoped Dickey’s legal skills had been kept more updated than his waiting room reading selections.
A minute later the man himself appeared in the doorway and beckoned him back.
The brown three-piece suit hung heavy on the man, and Nash noted the large, blackened mole on his neck as he followed Dickey to his office. Nash didn’t see any other people around and wondered if the “and Associates” in the name of the firm still was or had ever been true.
Dickey led him into a cluttered office smelling of cigarettes.
It had an oppressive mustiness that Nash would never have tolerated.
But then again, Dickey might not have a choice.
The lawyer pointed to a stained, upholstered chair.
Nash sat and waited as the man pulled out some documents from an estate box labeled TIBERIUS Q. NASH.
Nash knew that the Q stood for Quarles, though his father had never told him where his given names had come from.
In fact, while he had met his maternal grandparents, Nash had never met the paternal side of that equation, nor did his father ever speak of his parents.
He had learned from his mother that his father’s first wife’s suicide had occurred while Ty Nash had been deployed in Vietnam.
He had no idea why she had taken her own life.
But then again that might not be something a husband would divulge to his second wife.
“Not quite the official digs you’re used to, I’m sure,” said Dickey, with defiance stitched over his grizzled features. That made Nash think that his unspoken opinion of Dickey’s office environment had been betrayed in his expression, and the lawyer was calling him out over it.
Dickey added, “I’ve driven past your building. One of the biggest skyscrapers in town, and you right at the top. In lots of things, so to speak. Symbolic.”
Nash made a point of looking around. “But as with any office, the address, size, drapes, carpet, and furniture matter for little. It’s the work product that counts, isn’t it?”
Dickey’s defiant look vanished and was replaced with a more sober expression.
Nash continued. “And the quality of that comes from what’s up here.” He tapped his forehead. “And since my father entrusted his last wishes to you, Mr. Dickey, you must be decidedly more than competent, because he never suffered fools gladly or any other way.”
Nash did not have time to indulge in pointless games with the man. He just needed information so he could make decisions and move forward. That, in essence, had been Nash’s entire life: data, consideration, decision, and then move the chess pieces.
A chastened Dickey coughed to clear his throat. “Your father was a good, if demanding, client.”
“He could be very demanding, in many ways,” remarked Nash.
Dickey spread out some papers, then picked up one set with a blue backing and unfolded it.
“First things first. As I alluded to before, you are named as the executor of his estate. He owned the house free and clear. Your father wanted his companion, Rosalyn Parker, to have a life interest in it. But she would be liable for all the payments, taxes, insurance, utilities, and so on. However…”
“However what?”
“He left it to your discretion whether she would get the life interest or not.”
“And why would he leave that decision up to me?”
Dickey shrugged. “He didn’t confide in me on that point.”
“Do you know anything about his and Parker’s relationship?”
“She took wonderful care of him. And your father expressed feelings for her to the extent he could for anyone other than your mother.”
With this comment, Nash thought that Dickey was more than simply his father’s lawyer.
“I know she’s employed at the VA, but do you know if she has the financial ability to keep up the property, pay the taxes?”
“She will.”
“Meaning my father left her some money?”
“Yes. Now, after Parker’s death the house is to be sold and the proceeds donated to the American Cancer Society, in your mother’s memory.”
Nash sat back. “That was good of him.”
“I don’t have to tell you that your mother walked on water in your father’s eyes.”
Nash decided to go there. “You two were not just client and attorney, I take it?”
“We were drinking buddies, you could call us. And I fought in Nam as well, though not with your father. But we had that in common, and it’s a lot—more than a lot, actually.”
“I’m sure.”
“He had savings and checking accounts and a small life insurance policy. Half the money is to go to Isaiah York.”
“Shock,” noted Nash with a frown.
“By the way, he really unloaded on you at the church service.”
“Did you expect otherwise? Which also leads me to ask why my father named me as executor. You said you would fill me in on that?”
Dickey seemed to be working to hold back a smile. “To quote him, your father said you were ‘good with stupid shit like that.’”
“Right,” replied Nash. “Well, let’s get on with the stupid shit, shall we?”
“The rest of the funds go equally to the other members of the, um, motorcycle club. All told those equal around $75,000.”
“But I thought you said he had left some monies to Rosie Parker?”
“I’ll get to that. He sold the Ford Bronco, and his Harley was left to Shock.
I think he may have already picked it up.
And his mementos from Vietnam also go to Shock, with the proviso that you can select any you may want beforehand.
That includes medals, military papers, weapons, that sort of thing.
Shock has been informed of this and is waiting his turn. ”
Nash was surprised about this testamentary disposition, but didn’t remark on it.
“You also have first dibs on your mother’s possessions. I’m not sure what they all are, but they may be the usual things—letters, photos, keepsakes, perhaps things from your childhood. There is a small safe and they may be in there.” He handed Nash a card. “The code for the safe.”
Nash pocketed it. “So he kept my mother’s effects?”
“From what I understand, Mr. Nash, he never got rid of anything belonging to her.”
Except for me, thought Nash.
“Burial and related expenses have all been paid for, as has my legal fee. And now we get to the remaining item.” He picked up some other papers and ran his gaze down them.
“You may be aware that back in the 1980s, veterans exposed to Agent Orange settled a class action lawsuit against a number of manufacturers of the chemical herbicide that had been dropped into Vietnam to kill crops and cover foliage being utilized by the North Vietnamese. It was $180 million spread over more than two million veterans—so not that much, actually. But due to some unique conditions pertaining to his individual case, your father also reached a separate settlement with the Army over his Agent Orange exposure.”
Nash sat up straighter. “I wasn’t aware of that.”
“No one was, really. Not even Shock. In 1991 a bill was signed into law designating injuries suffered from exposure to Agent Orange and other herbicides as wartime injuries so that the VA would be responsible for taking care of the medical issues associated with that exposure. That was why your father was able to receive treatment there.”
“What unique conditions pertained to my father’s case?”
“Again, something I was not privy to. He received the funds shortly after your mother’s death. The total amount was $550,000.”
Nash sat up even straighter. “My God. That’s quite a sum to get out of the military.
But I understood that such payments were typically done on a monthly basis and were based on a complicated calculation of the veteran being married or not, how many dependents, the exact harm caused by the Agent Orange exposure, and the like. ”
“You seem to have done some research into this,” observed Dickey.
“When she was alive my mother had some questions, so I tried to find some answers for her.”
“Well, you’re right, monthly disability payments are the norm based on calculations and the elements you just outlined. However, your father argued, successfully, for a lump-sum payment due to some particular circumstances of his case.”
“The unique conditions?”
“Yes.”
“He did tend to keep things close to the vest.”
“I actually initially represented him as I have other veterans in similar situations. For the most part the Army routinely stonewalled them until they either died or gave up or sought payments from the likes of Monsanto and the other manufacturers of Agent Orange. But Ty persisted even after I had told him there was no hope, and he apparently made a forceful case to get such a payout.”
“It was in his nature. But if he did so without benefit of legal representation, that was a Herculean feat.”
Dickey smiled and his eyes danced as a result. “Didn’t you know, Mr. Nash?”
“Know what?”
“Your father was Hercules.” Dickey looked down at the papers.
“The amount was not taxable under the prevailing law. So he immediately invested all the money in a portfolio of good stocks and also some high-quality bonds. And he reinvested all the bond interest, dividends, after tax, etc. The total amount now is $850,000 and change.”
“An excellent return over five years,” noted Nash, who could hardly believe his father had been sitting on this much money.
“Yes. He actually said you had rubbed off on him.”
“We were long since estranged by the time I entered the business world.”
“I think he was referring to your logical mind for business and the discipline to invest long-term.”
“I went by the house yesterday. It looked fixed up. Did he use some of the Agent Orange money to do that?”
“He did, yes. I believe the amount spent was around eighty thousand dollars.”
“So his return was even better than I originally thought. So where do those funds go? Some to Ms. Parker surely, as you mentioned?”
“Yes, $250,000 to her. The same amount to Shock.”
“And the residual?”
Dickey read off one page in front of him: “$350,000 to his granddaughter, Margaret Nash, to be invested and held in trust for her benefit until she is twenty-five years old, when half the amount will be disbursed outright, and at age twenty-eight, when the other half will be released to her.”
Nash just stared wide-eyed at the man for a moment. “He never even met my daughter.”
“That may well be, but his testamentary wishes were clear. And you are also appointed as the trustee and, despite the trust distribution instructions, you have the discretion to release some or all of the money to your daughter at any time in your reasonable judgment upon a request by her for said funds.”
Well, this complicates the hell out of things with her influencer dream.
“I guess my father thought I was ‘good at that stupid shit,’ too,” he pointed out.
“Apparently, yes,” said Dickey, without looking at him.
“So am I bound to tell Maggie of the trust and the amounts in it?”
“The document does not explicitly say so, but—”
“Understood. I will set up accounts in which all the funds can be deposited prior to disbursement in the case of Shock, the motorcycle buddies, and Ms. Parker. Has a trust account been set up for my daughter?”
“A temporary one. Your father was of the mind that you would know best how to deal with the investments, market conditions, dividends, tax returns, and the like.”
“Fine. I’ll handle all of that. I will also visit the house and look over the items to which I am entitled. Now, the titling of the house?”
“If you so choose, a legal vehicle can be set up showing Ms. Parker’s life interest. When the time comes, you, as trustee, will have the authority to sell the property, with the proceeds going to the Cancer Society.
And there is no estate tax, since the exemption amount did not come close to being exceeded in your father’s case.
Only the super wealthy are affected by it in any case.
Any documents needed to implement the sale of the house can be done at that time.
” He paused and glanced at Nash. “Are you leaning toward letting Ms. Parker stay in the house?”
“I will take all of my father’s wishes into consideration,” Nash said guardedly.
“Well, if you do let her stay, so long as Ms. Parker pays the taxes and insurance, and maintains the property, we should be good to go. Now, I have applied at the courthouse for twenty copies of the death certificate. You will have to provide them to various persons and institutions, of course.”
“My wife’s parents both died a few years back in an accident, and I was their executor. So I’m familiar with the routine.”
“Fine. If you need any other assistance I am here to help. For no additional fee.”
Nash held up a hand in protest. “That’s not necessary. If you do additional work, you should be paid.”
“I was your father’s friend, Mr. Nash. This is my final parting gift to him.”
Nash nodded. “All right. Thank you, Mr. Dickey.”
Dickey’s secretary put together a packet of the necessary documents and Nash left with them safely tucked into his briefcase.
He went to his Range Rover, but didn’t start the vehicle.
Instead, the up-to-now all-business and logically minded Walter Nash lay his head down on the steering wheel and quietly wept.