Chapter 6
Professional duties returned and required Simon’s presence in the courtroom down the street.
It was a docket call, an antiquated waste of time wherein most of the town’s lawyers gathered in front of an old judge who could barely turn on a computer and dickered about the scheduling of trials for cases that should never have been filed.
As they waited for the judge, the lawyers mingled and gossiped and tried to look important before the crowd of spectators and litigants. They were allowed to drink coffee in the courtroom, but not eat the doughnuts one of the clerks had, for some reason, placed on the stenographer’s table.
Simon went out of his way to engage Wally Thackerman in a pleasant conversation about a new shopping center one of Wally’s clients was planning.
As he chatted on, Simon feigned interest in the shopping center while thinking of nothing but the outrageous last will and testament Wally had written for himself and convinced Eleanor Barnett to sign two months earlier.
That he, Simon, was drafting one very similar did not seem relevant.
What will Wally do when she dies and he sprints to the courthouse to probate his version of Eleanor’s last will and testament, only to learn almost immediately that it had just been renounced and held void by a subsequent one prepared by Simon F.
Latch, Attorney and Counselor at Law? It was not a pleasant thought.
Wally rattled on about his shopping center. The breathtaking news was that an exciting new chain of sandwich shops from California was near a deal on a long-term lease, one that would certainly attract other classy tenants.
The problem was that Eleanor had no idea what to do with her fortune and needed serious advice, wisdom she was not getting from anyone else. Someone, and certainly not the windbag going on about avocado hoagies, had to help her. There was no one but Simon.
Mercifully, His Honor rallied long enough to make his appearance and get settled behind his bench.
Simon managed to extricate himself from Wally’s deal-making and took a seat at one of the counsel tables.
Salmon Subs? Didn’t exactly make your mouth water.
Simon shuddered with the thought that some of Eleanor’s money might get invested in such ventures.
Wally had a reputation for getting tangled up in bad deals.
The judge picked up some papers, frowned, and said good morning. He went through his tired old routine of thanking the lawyers for being such good lawyers and thanking the clerks, and so on. He read the name of the first case and said the trial would start in an hour. He droned on.
Simon nodded off but caught himself. His mind came back to life when he tried to visualize a hot will contest in that very courtroom.
He became dizzy at the visual of him sitting at counsel table being gawked at by everyone else—jurors, lawyers, clerks, spectators—all convinced that he had been caught red-handed trying to con an old woman out of her money.
That, of course, would not be true, since the old woman still had her money up until the moment she died, but nonetheless, the case would quickly devolve into a public relations nightmare for Simon.
With time, he could endure the nightmare and eventually survive it, if, of course, he had control of the money.
There were too many bad scenarios.
Spade was only fifteen minutes late. Simon was at the bar hovering over a video poker screen and glancing occasionally at a basketball game that held little interest. He ordered two beers and some onion rings and they retired to the same dark corner as the night before.
“Who you got?” Spade asked, nodding at a widescreen above the bar.
“Neither. Tulsa versus Tulane. Not exactly life-or-death.”
“So you only play the teams you like. That’s a bad strategy.”
“Thanks for the advice. About Eleanor Barnett.”
“Some progress. Harry Korsak checks out. Born in 1941 in Knoxville, married Betsy in 1965, had two sons, Clyde and Jerry. Betsy died in 1981 and he married Eleanor Barnett in 1989. For decades he worked for Coke, first in a warehouse then got promoted to a district sales job. As such, he qualified for the company’s profit-sharing and began buying stock.
Retired in 2002, croaked four years later.
” Spade stopped long enough to take a gulp of beer and wipe his mouth with a sleeve.
Simon said, “Nice, but how much stock?”
“I’m getting there. Truth is we can’t know.
In 1990, for example, Coke had sixty million common shares outstanding and these were owned by roughly half a million people and entities.
Most of it by the big players—mutual funds, hedge funds, retirement funds.
They have to report what they own. It’s all public record.
For example, the Michigan public employees’ retirement fund, in 1990, owned eight hundred million dollars’ worth of Coke stock. ”
“That’s certainly good to know.”
“I’m just trying to explain things to you, Latch, and I’m going real slow, okay?”
The onion rings arrived and Spade began chomping on one.
Before swallowing, he continued, “But getting individual names is more difficult, especially when purchased through the company’s stock plan.
There is a record of old Harry buying the Coke stock from 1965 until he retired, but no record of how much.
And, no record of how much he might have sold along the way. ”
“She says he sold nothing.”
“And you always believe your client?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. Think about it, Latch. Today about nine million shares of Coke stock was traded on the Big Board, same yesterday, same tomorrow. It’s virtually impossible to keep up with who owns the stock. Same for Wal-Mart.”
“How many shares of Wal-Mart were traded?” Simon asked innocently and immediately wished he had not.
“You gotta computer? If you can turn it on, takes about ten seconds.”
Simon gave a goofy laugh to deflect his stupidity. He crunched on an onion ring, glanced at the game, and said, “So, we don’t know how much stock she might have.”
“It would take a subpoena. Here’s the interesting part. That Appletree outfit she mentioned got swallowed several times years ago. What’s left of it is now known as Rumke-Brown, a quiet little money management firm in an unmarked office in Buckhead. Guess who Brown is?”
“I couldn’t begin to guess.”
“You could if you tried. Buddy Brown, probably our gal’s longtime manager.”
“Our gal? You taking an interest?”
“Maybe, because Buddy and his gang don’t mess with the common folk. Takes twenty-five million to get in the door.”
“Leave her alone. She’s eighty-five.”
“I know, means she’ll croak soon and I’ll get a bigger house.”
“Knock it off, Spade.”
“I know. She’s all yours.”
“Can we keep things on a professional level?”
Spade laughed as if he were joking and took another onion ring.
He washed it down with another gulp and said, “They moved here, bought the house at the bottom of the market. Two months after they moved in, Harry had the big one and checked out. At the time he was still a registered voter in Atlanta, where they had lived for a long time. Get this—there was no probate. Kinda unusual for a big estate, right?”
“I’d say so, but not if all assets were jointly owned.”
“Exactly. Everything they had was jointly owned, with survivorship rights, so it all passed immediately to Eleanor without the need for probate. Ole Harry was a pretty slick dude. With the full marital deduction and jointly owned assets, he outfoxed the IRS and she got everything.”
“Sounds like he really wanted to keep things away from his two sons.”
“And those bloodsucking estate lawyers. No offense.”
“Of course not.”
Spade was watching the game and said, “I put a thousand on Tulsa minus eight and they’re losing by twenty. Remember that cash you gave me last night?”
“It appears to be leaving your wallet. Do we have a next step?”
“I don’t think so. We could pay a hacker to take a peek at the firm’s books and her account.”
“That’s a crime.”
“Tell me about it. I almost got busted three years ago, remember? I used a hacker in Russia who was about to rat me out when somebody got to him first. Ate a bullet. I ain’t going to jail, Latch.”
“Nor am I. So, it’s fair to say Ms. Barnett is loaded?”
“I’d bet on it, but I wouldn’t bet the ranch.
Too many unknowns. Did dear Harry sell some stock?
Did Ms. Barnett? Is she worth a lot less but Buddy watches her money because he’s done it for years?
Was she grandfathered in when the firms merged?
Safe to say she’s got a lot of stock but who knows how much. ”
“She knows but I doubt she’ll show me a statement. I tried once and got a stiff arm.”
“Come on, Latch. As charming as you are? Just tell the old gal you can’t represent her if you don’t know her assets.”
“I’ve tried that.”
“Want me to talk to her?
“Hell no!”
“Just joking, Latch. I’d like the rest of my retainer, gotta pay Chub. Tulsa!”
“Always a pleasure, Spade.”