Chapter 4
The Starbucks anchored one corner of a strip mall at the edge of a suburb fifteen minutes from his office.
It was busy when he arrived half an hour early to scope out the place and look for privacy.
He sipped dark roast at four bucks a cup and moved quickly when a corner table opened up.
He toyed with his laptop, same as all the other customers, and watched the endless line of cars creep through the drive-thru.
Then he saw the old Lincoln turn a corner.
Netty couldn’t find a spot and parked far away, straddling a yellow line.
She drove like a ninety-year-old who’d been a lousy driver seventy years earlier.
As she entered, he stood and waved and helped her to her seat.
She seemed ill at ease and glanced around.
“Figures,” she said. “I’m the only senior here.”
“Would you like coffee or tea?”
“Just some water, please.”
Simon left and brought back a bottle of water. She ignored it and asked, “Can we really talk here? I mean, it’s not very private.”
The nearest person was ten feet away, hunched over a laptop with wires running to ears that were invisible under a red hoodie. “Oh, it’s very private. No one can hear a word we say because their ears are plugged.”
“These young people.”
“I know. Addicted to their phones and laptops. What’s the world coming to?”
“I guess.” She unscrewed the cap and drank some water.
Finally, Simon said, “We were going to talk about your will, the one prepared by Wally Thackerman.”
“Yes, I’m just not comfortable with it.”
“Did you bring it?”
She reached into a large handbag and retrieved an envelope. As she handed it to him she glanced around again.
“Please relax, Netty. These kids are totally self-absorbed and have no interest in anything we’re talking about.”
Simon wanted to rip open the envelope and scour the will for the scandalous language, but he managed to take his time and keep smiling at her.
It was only four pages long, with the first paragraphs filled with the usual lawyerly crap that he himself charged people for.
Then, the juicy part. It established the “Eleanor Korsak Barnett Memorial Trust” and placed all of the liquid assets in it.
Her home was to be sold, along with everything else, and the cash added to the trust. All the fancy legal footwork would be done by, of course, the Honorable Wally Thackerman, who was not only the executor of her estate and the sole trustee of her trust, but also the lawyer self-appointed to handle everything.
His fees were set at $750 an hour and Simon could almost visualize the thick, padded bills Wally would present to the court for interim payments.
Simon frowned, a grimace prompted by genuine disbelief, but also offered for dramatic effect because Netty was staring at him, waiting. “Is it that bad?” she whispered loudly, then covered her mouth and glanced around again. No one looked at her. No one knew she existed.
“Let me finish,” Simon said calmly with a fake smile, as if what he was reading was definitely outrageous but he alone could fix everything.
Moving beyond the hefty fees to come, the worst part was the power granted unto the trustee.
In half a page of thick legalese, Wally gave himself the right to do virtually everything and anything with the trust. He could donate to “appropriate” charities and nonprofits, make loans to virtually anyone, hire consultants, appraisers, accountants, and tax experts to help “protect” the trust. After ten years of such shenanigans, he could, in the event any of the money was left, disburse it at his discretion and close the trust.
Simon worked on his poker face. He had to be careful. He could not outright condemn the will, because he was suddenly emboldened to prepare one very much like it. But, he had to criticize it enough to win her support and convince her that he could steer her assets in a safer direction.
“It doesn’t mention your two stepsons,” he observed, still frowning, reading glasses balanced on the tip of his nose.
“Nothing for them. I thought I told you that.”
“Yes, you did, but that could cause problems. If they receive nothing they might get upset and hire some more lawyers to attack the will.”
“But they’re not entitled to anything, right? That Wally character told me that a person, any person, can exclude a child from her or his will, at least in this state. It that right? And since they’re not really my children, they have no claim to my estate?”
“That’s correct. You can exclude everyone but a spouse.”
“Well, my spouse is dead and he left me everything. Not a dime for those two outlaw sons of his. Nothing. Cut, cut, cut.”
She did the cutting with a glow in her eyes, the first sign of possible meanness. Simon was pleased that she was already referring to her soon-to-be ex-lawyer as “that Wally character.” He read on, frowning intelligently. When he finished, he took a sip of coffee and said, “I don’t like this will.”
“I told you so.”
“It gives too much power to the attorney for your trust.”
“How can we fix it?”
“It’ll take a few hours but I’ll hop right on it. The obvious challenge here, Netty, is to find a place for the money. I want you to make a list of possible charities you’d like to help.”
“Such as?”
“Do you have a church?”
“Yes, sort of. Harry was a Lutheran and we tried to go once a year.”
“That’s an idea. Think big. There are about a million worthy nonprofits you could help.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the Girl Scouts, heart association, orphanages, animal shelters, local library, small colleges, refugees, childhood hunger, environmental groups. You mentioned your work with the spider monkeys.”
“That was a rip-off.”
“Do you like animals?”
“Not really.”
“Okay. Whatever. Sit down tonight and make a list of all the possible groups, causes, and charities that you might want to help.”
“What’s your favorite charity?”
Simon’s lack of generosity was caused by a lack of extra cash rather than an absence of a kind spirit.
How could he possibly write checks to help others when he and Paula were underwater and staring at three kids soon going to college?
They had not donated more than a hundred bucks in the past five years.
He lied quickly with “The Sierra Club.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s not really for you. Have you thought about leaving some money for your friends?”
“My friends, the ones still living, know nothing about the money. If I told them about it they’d drive me crazy and my life would get very complicated. That’s what money does, Simon, it really causes problems.”
So does the lack of it, he thought to himself but managed to maintain an intelligent frown. He scribbled something on his legal pad and said, “Okay, moving right along. Who prepares your tax returns each year?”
“Why do you want to know?” she snapped, quite defensively.
“Well, because when you die, and I hate to say it that way but that’s the real reason we’re here, right, so when you die and your new will comes into play, the attorney for your estate will have to work with your tax advisor to prepare your returns.”
“Who will be the attorney for my estate?”
“That’s entirely up to you, but it’s pretty common for the attorney who prepares the will to also act as the probate attorney.”
“Kinda like that Wally character.”
“Yes, kinda like that.”
“What was the question?”
“Your tax advisor?”
“Oh yes, he’s this little CPA guy in Atlanta, been doing my taxes forever. One of Harry’s old sidekicks. I talk to him once a year, so you don’t need to bother him.”
“Okay, but it might be important for me to make contact.”
“That’s what Wally said. Why do you lawyers always want to pry into everything?
” Another flash of anger, maybe even bordering on meanness.
She was suddenly defensive and Simon quickly changed strategies and backed off.
He had done a good job so far of gaining her trust and he didn’t want to irritate her.
Pry? Oh yes. What Simon really wanted was some proof that his dear Netty actually owned all that Coke and Wal-Mart stock, in addition to several million dollars just sitting in the bank.
He believed her, he wanted so desperately to believe her, but he was also cautious enough to proceed slowly.
Clients lied to him all the time. Lawyers, often after a few drinks, loved to tell stories of the outrageous lies their clients had fed them.
He assumed the stocks were held in a brokerage account and a nice, neat, concise summary was sent to Netty each month, same as the bank statements. He gritted his teeth and asked, “Do you have a financial advisor?”
She rolled her eyes as if frustrated and glanced around again, looking for eavesdroppers. She frowned and a ridge of thick wrinkles folded across her forehead. “You mean, like, a stockbroker?”
“Yes, who handles the stocks?”
“Well, it’s complicated. You see, Harry did business for years with a firm in Atlanta, then it merged or something with a bigger firm, and so on. After Harry died, one firm got sold to another. I really can’t keep up with it all. Now it’s all handled by this guy in Atlanta.”
“I see. Is there a person I can talk to about your assets?”
“I don’t know. Why do you want to talk to someone about my assets?”
“Because the IRS may require proof of assets.” Simon had no idea what he was talking about but using the IRS might frighten her somewhat.
She mumbled, “Same thing Wally said.” This startled Simon, but he decided to let it go and push later. He pretended to ignore her last comment, cast an important glance at his wristwatch, and said, “Okay, I’ll get started on this. Let’s meet again in a couple of days and go over a rough draft.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s the first version of your new will. In the meantime, please give some thought to some charities and foundations you might want to include.”
“I thought we talked about that. Thought I told you I don’t have any favorite charities.”
No charities, no friends, no family, no distant relatives.
No one to receive the fortune when his dear Netty kicked the bucket.
Perhaps that’s why Wally Thackerman did not name a single nonprofit.
His scheme basically left everything in a new foundation that would become his own little piggy bank after her funeral, with at least a dozen ways to siphon money into his own pocket.
Simon hated to admit it, but Wally’s will was impressive, in spite of its blatant effort at being nothing but a naked grab for money.
Simon vowed to do much better. He capped his pen, pulled his notes together, and said, “There is one thing, Netty. I can’t prepare a simple will if I can’t verify your assets. For most of my clients, this is not really necessary because they are not wealthy. But you’re in a different category.”
She was gazing through the window with a blank stare, as if it were time for another nap. She shook her head and said softly, “All this legal stuff.”
“I know, I know. But it’s important to get this right. Your current will is a mess and will only enable Wally Thackerman to end up with most of the money. That’s not right.”
She looked as if she might cry. “I feel so stupid.”
“Please. I can fix this. But I need to know the name of your stockbroker in Atlanta.”
“Buddy Brown.”
He repeated the name to himself. For some reason “Buddy” didn’t quite fit that profession. He uncapped his pen and scribbled on a paper napkin. “And the name of his firm?”
“Appletree something or other.” She was drifting away, her eyelids fluttering, her speech fading as if fatigued. And for the first time Simon wondered about her mental capacity. She was an elderly woman who suddenly looked even older. Hang on, old girl.
Among the many issues roaring through his brain was the challenge of getting her new will witnessed by two people who could attest to her “sound and disposing mind and memory.” Normally, it was a routine matter with Matilda and a secretary next door going through the motions.
Oh well. It was something else he would deal with later.
He walked her to her car and watched her drive away, on the wrong side of the road and with one foot on the brake.