Chapter 24
There were a couple of lawyers in town who were known to hang around hospital emergency rooms and hallways waiting to pounce on the families of people injured in car wrecks or on the job.
They were throwbacks to an earlier time before the deluge of TV and billboard advertising, back when “ambulance chasing” was frowned upon.
They monitored police scanners and bribed tow-truck drivers and used a dozen other tricks to land clients.
Simon knew them well and was determined to keep them away from Eleanor, though it would soon be known that she was likely to be a defendant and not a plaintiff.
“No, thanks. It’s so good to see you here, Simon.”
Wouldn’t miss it for the world. “How about some coffee?”
“No, but some water would be good.”
He fetched her some in a plastic cup and thought about asking, How’s your hangover?
She sipped through a straw and asked, “Where is Doris?”
“Down the hall. She’s okay. Seems as though she was wearing a seat belt. And you were not.”
“Oh my. I really don’t remember much.”
“You took a blow to the head, got some stitches, a couple of broken ribs.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
He patted her arm and said, “It’s a long story, and not a good one.”
He left a few minutes after nine, and on the way out had a chat with the charge nurse, Loretta Goodwin.
Ms. Barnett was not to be questioned by the police or anyone else, and please watch out for other lawyers, insurance adjusters, and the like.
Loretta agreed while rolling her eyes. She’d seen it all.
At the office, he briefed Matilda and asked her to hold his calls.
He closed his door, stretched out on the sofa, and tried to arrange his thoughts.
Eleanor would likely be in the hospital for a few days, a golden opportunity for him to dig deeper into her financial affairs and make himself indispensable.
He could petition the court to establish a conservatorship to handle her bills and such, and in doing so have access to virtually everything.
The downside was the notoriety. Any court filing would be a public record, and there was no shortage of snoops in the courthouse.
So far, in the nine months or so that he had represented her, he had been able to keep his name away from hers.
That would all change when she died and he probated her will, but for the moment he wanted the anonymity.
He had just dozed off when Matilda rapped on his door. Without waiting, she barged in with a panicked look. As Simon was scrambling to his feet, she said, “There are two guys here in dark suits. FBI, badges and all. Pretty serious dudes.”
“What have you done now?”
“Me? Sorry, boss, they want to see you.”
“Send ’em in.”
Simon took some deep breaths, tried to relax his face, forced a smile, and met them at the door. Just another exciting day in the life of a small-town lawyer.
Since all FBI agents are special, they introduced themselves as Special Agent Perez and Special Agent Underwood.
They wore matching suits and shirts, but their ties were different shades of blue.
They sat in chairs at the big desk with Simon on the other side, perched on his executive swivel throne.
He showed them his cell phone, pressed a key, and said, “Just for fun, I’ll record whatever we are about to say. ” They shrugged in unison.
After an awkward attempt to catch up on the weather, Simon cut to the chase and asked, “So what’s up, guys?”
Underwood appeared to be slightly older, maybe twenty-nine or thirty, and he was in charge. He obviously had more experience with bluster and bravado. “So, you see much of Hubert Nelson these days?”
Simon was perplexed and couldn’t respond.
“Also goes by ‘Chub.’ Owns a few bars in the area.”
“Sorry, I’ve never thought about Chub having a proper name. I’ve known him for fifteen years and never heard him called Hubert. Plenty of other names, though.” Simon thought that last comment was slightly humorous but they did not. “What’s Chub done now?”
“We’re still trying to figure that out,” Underwood said. “The investigation centers around illegal gambling. Our sources tell us that Chub is actively involved. You know anything about that?”
“Well, gentlemen, here are the rules. If I’m a suspect in any crime, then I’m not chatting with you without my lawyer present. Plain and simple.”
“Didn’t ask about you. What about Chub? You ever bet the games in his sports book?”
“If I did, that would be a crime. So if you’re asking me if I’ve committed a crime, then, again, you’ll have to come back when my lawyer is here.”
They stood in unison. Underwood tossed a business card onto the desk and said, “Thanks, we’ll be in touch.”
Simon didn’t move as they opened the door and left.
He heard them speak to Matilda and leave through the front door.
He took deep breaths and tried to reduce his heart rate.
He kicked back and put his feet on the desk, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
He also put together an excuse for Tillie, who would arrive any moment.
“What was that all about?” she asked, standing in the door.
“Have a seat.” His version of the story was that the Feds were investigating Chub’s alleged gambling operation.
Since his separation from Paula, Simon was spending more time in Chub’s and making small bets on games.
Nothing serious. He won more than he lost, and so on.
All his buddies played the games. The Feds were just tracking down leads.
She said, “I go to Yesterday’s occasionally. It’s a nice bar.”
Yesterday’s was Chub’s only effort at a legitimate club and attracted singles and young marrieds.
“It’s nothing to worry about,” Simon said as his stomach flipped. “You’d think they have more important crimes to worry about.”
“Is gambling still a crime?”
“Depends on how you do it. But, don’t worry. It’s nothing.”
She closed the door when she left and Simon stretched out on the sofa.
Where the hell was Landy? Hadn’t she practically guaranteed him he was not a target?
After another round of deep breathing, he decided that the visit was nothing but a routine check-in-the-box by a couple of rookies who had to report something to their supervisor.
He still refused to believe he could possibly face criminal charges for betting on games.
He also knew that the rampant popularity of sports gambling did not make it legal, but why would the Feds choose Chub out of thousands of local bookies?
And why would they choose Simon out of millions of casual bettors?
He simply refused to believe he was in trouble.
He snapped out of it, went to his desk, called Tillie and told her to order flowers for Eleanor Barnett, Room 328, Blue Ridge Memorial Hospital.
During lunch, Simon returned to the hospital, and as he parked he wondered how many times he would be doing the same thing over the next week or two. Hospitals were such depressing places.
He tapped her door as he shoved it open and softly said, “Anybody home?”
Her bed was empty; no one was home. There were voices behind him, and he turned to see the door swing fully open.
Two young men in hospital garb pushed and pulled a gurney with Eleanor’s frail figure tucked under the sheets from the waist down.
She sat propped up on pillows, and with a big smile said, “Hello Sy, welcome back.” He moved to the side to make way for the gurney.
“These are my new friends,” she said, rather cheerily, as if she’d been drinking again. Simon knew immediately it was the meds. “They had to roll me downstairs for X-rays again. Bill and Oscar.”
Simon nodded as they hardly noticed him. As they prepared to lift her into her bed, one of the men said, “Please step outside. We’ll just be a minute.” Simon glanced at the ID badge pinned to his white coat. Oscar Kofie.
He hurried outside and bumped into Loretta Goodwin, who seemed to be waiting for him. “Got a minute?”
“Sure,” he said.
She spoke in a low voice and glanced around.
“The doctors made their rounds this morning and they’re concerned about her leg.
There’s bleeding that might require a little surgery, nothing too complicated.
Just took some more X-rays. The problem is that she doesn’t have a living will, an advance directive, or a medical power of attorney.
And, evidently, she has no family. She lists you as her contact person. Is there anyone else?”
“No, not that I’m aware of.”
“Okay, can you talk to her and explain that she needs some paperwork, and, like, real soon?”
“Sure, happy to. When is this surgery?”
“It’s not scheduled yet and it may not be necessary. They’ll watch her for a couple of days. We, the hospital, just need someone on record as her spokesman.”
“Okay. I’ll talk to her.”
The empty gurney appeared in the door and Bill and Oscar rolled it away.
With Simon dictating, Tillie prepared a power of attorney and an advance directive, giving Simon full authority over virtually every aspect of Eleanor’s business affairs and health care.
He returned to the hospital where he waited half an hour outside the office of the CEO and chief administrator, a Dr. Connor Wilkes.
Once inside, he explained what he was doing and asked for her help.
He said, “I want to make it clear that she is signing the power of attorney and advance directive with a thorough understanding of it all.”
“There’s no family?”
“Afraid not. I’d rather not be doing this,” Simon said gravely. “But there is simply no one else.”
Dr. Wilkes was reluctant and obviously wary of a lawyer wanting to have important papers signed by a patient who was elderly and drugged. But Simon was convincing and persistent. “Give me an hour to explain it all to my client,” he said.
The explaining was made all the more difficult by her mental state.
She was horrified at what she had done and worried sick over Doris and the folks in the car she had T-boned.
Facing a drunk driving charge was inconceivable.
“I’m not going to jail, am I?” she asked several times.
Simon assured her she was not, though he wasn’t so sure himself.
He tried to allay her fears but it was impossible.
He was firm yet compassionate, and he truly felt sorry for her.
He said, “Your bills are not getting paid, Netty. I’ll handle your paperwork until you get back on your feet. I wish there was someone else.”
She wiped more tears and said, “So do I, Simon, but there’s no one.”
As for the power of attorney, he explained that it was only temporary and could be dissolved anytime she wanted. He would not write a single check without consulting her, but it was imperative that he have access to her checkbook, bills, and other financial records.
She was crying when she said, “I won’t be able to drive?”
“No, Netty, your driving days are over.”
The advance directive was more complicated. It directed her “health care advisor” to consult with her doctors and so on. If she became completely incapacitated, she was not to be resuscitated. Her life was not to be prolonged by medication, feeding tubes, respirators or other medical devices.
“Am I going to die?” she asked over and over. He assured her she was going to be fine, for now, and that the directive would be used only in some future medical situation. It included language covering her final arrangements.
When Dr. Wilkes arrived she brought an entourage, including Dr. Samuel Lilly, the attending physician.
The room was filled with frowning people, all watching Simon with great suspicion.
He expected as much and turned on the charm, explaining both documents and repeatedly asking Eleanor if she understood what she was being asked to do.
Dr. Wilkes engaged her in an extended conversation, which she managed to handle well enough.
It was a fairly thorough grilling and she began to tire, as did the entourage.
When the questions petered out, Simon said to Dr. Wilkes, “We can do this another time if you’d like.”
No one in the room wanted to repeat the meeting. Eleanor seemed to know what she was doing and ended the inquisition with “No, I don’t want to do this again. I trust Simon and I want to sign the papers.”
She did, and a secretary notarized her signatures. Simon thanked everyone warmly and promised to send copies for the hospital files. After they were gone, Eleanor said she was fatigued, hungry, and tired, and the nurses took over. Simon said goodbye and promised to return later in the evening.
In the lobby, he bumped into Officer Pully and they had a tense chat about the situation. He inquired as to how Simon wanted to handle the arrest.
“Are you kidding? What’s the hurry? She’s not going anywhere.”
“How long will she be in the hospital?”
“She just got here. Give her a break.”
“Well, her victims are making some noise.”
“Let ’em squawk. There’s no rush. When she’s able to walk we’ll cooperate fully. Just back off, okay?”
“I’d like to take her statement.”
Simon bristled even more and said, “You’re not speaking to her, got it? Not a word. Back off or I’ll call the chief.”
“Hey, I don’t like threats, especially from lawyers.”
“And I don’t like pushy cops. Surely you have better things to do than to harass old women in the hospital. Just take it easy and we’ll cooperate.”
“Damn right you will. I’ll see you in court.”
“Sir, that’s the last place you want to see me.” Simon walked away with a swagger, like a real badass trial lawyer.