“What about after he died and you inherited everything?”
“Well, there was this one charity I liked, or at least I thought so. Years ago I saw something on cable about the spider monkeys in Uganda and how they were starving to death because of some chemicals the government was spraying. Poor things were just shriveling up and dying by the hundreds. It was heartbreaking, so I sent a thousand dollars to the Spider Monkey Trust, had an address in Boston. They said thanks, sent me a calendar and all, made me a member of one of their boards, then asked me for more money. I sent another check, then another, and they kept asking. Wanted to send an executive out here to meet me and have lunch and so on. Then they sold my name and address to somebody else and before long my mailbox was jam-packed with letters from folks trying to save whales and buffaloes and cheetahs and Canadian wolverines. I sent them nothing. Got so bad I changed my mailing address. Then the FBI busted the Spider Monkey Trust, whole thing was a scam. Got me for eleven thousand. So, no, Simon, I don’t fool with charities.”
Simon managed to listen while his mind raced around that little weasel Wally Thackerman across the street, putting his name in the will and controlling everything. It was highly unethical and grounds for disbarment, but then who needs a law license when you’re drowning in cash?
She was prattling on. “Ever since I signed that will I’ve worried about it. Doesn’t seem right for the lawyer to be able to get his hands on everything, right, Simon?”
“I need to see the will, Netty.”
She pulled a tissue out of a pocket and was tapping it on her cheeks. “I’m sorry. This is so confusing. I never really felt right, you know, leaving everything to Mr. Thackerman, a man I don’t really know. That was not very smart, was it?”
Of course not. Downright stupid. But with the client in tears and vulnerable and sitting on a fortune, Simon grew even warmer. “We’ll take care of it, Netty. Trust me. This is easy to fix. Sometimes proper estate planning requires a significant portion of the assets to be placed in trust, and the attorney is often named as the trustee.”
“Legal gobbledygook.”
“Yes, I’m sorry, but the law can get complicated. Let me take a look at the will and we can go from there.”
“Okay.”
Simon was dizzy with rapid thoughts. He closed his legal pad, put the cap on his pen, and said, “Look, tomorrow I have some business in Fairhaven close to where you live. Let’s meet at that new Starbucks on Millmont Street. You know where it is?”
“I think so, but I really don’t mind coming downtown.”
“No, I insist. Same time, two P.M. tomorrow. And I’ll look over your will.”
“I guess.”
“And here’s something sensitive, Netty, something I can tell only you. Matilda out there is not the most discreet person I’ve ever hired. We’ve had issues over her ability to keep secrets, and this is just the type of gossip that she might repeat to the wrong person.”
“Oh dear.”
“Right. I’ll have to terminate her soon enough. A lawyer cannot have a blabbermouth in the office. In the meantime, though, not another word to her. If you need me, just call my cell phone.” He slid across a business card.
“Oh dear.” She was feigning surprise but also enjoying the intrigue.
“It’ll be okay, trust me. I can prepare the will myself and she’ll never see it. It’s best that way.”
“If you say so.”
“Trust me. Two P.M. tomorrow at Starbucks.”
He followed her down the hall to reception, chatting the whole way about the weather. Netty glared at Matilda as she walked by but said nothing. Simon opened the front door and stepped outside with her. As she wandered off and got in her car, the old Lincoln, he stared at the law office across Main Street.
Law Offices of Walter J. Thackerman. What a slimeball.
Back inside, Matilda said, “Nice little lady. You have the questionnaire? I’ll do the will right now.”
Simon stopped and looked out the front window as if there was trouble. “Might have a problem. She could be crazy, really off her rocker. I think she’s being treated, gotta be careful. And she’s not sure what to do with her house so she wants to think about it for a few days. Could be a real pain.”
“I thought she was rather lovely.”
“We’ll see. Do I have any other appointments this afternoon?”
“Yes, the Pendergrasts. Their bankruptcy is causing problems.”
“Great.”
Chapter 2
The rest of the day was shot. He couldn’t stomach the thought of sitting for an hour with Mr. and Mrs. Pendergrast as they squabbled over who was to blame for their financial problems. Simon’s speciality was bankruptcies and they were often more trouble than divorces, which he loathed. He called the Pendergrasts and canceled with one of the many standard lawyer fibs used to duck and weave: he said he was suddenly needed in federal court. But he really wasn’t needed anywhere. The most pressing file on his desk involved the purchase and sale of an ice-cream shop down the street, a $20,000 deal for which he might earn a fee of a thousand bucks or so.
Suddenly, every file seemed so trivial. An elderly client with $16 million in stocks and more in cash had just left his office with a current will that left her fortune to a rat-faced little lawyer across the street. Simon could think of nothing else. As soon as Matilda said goodbye promptly at five, he left ten minutes later and drove to a watering hole in a motel bar out near the interstate. It was favored by lawyers and judges who didn’t want to be seen drinking too much in town, though there were some who drank openly and excessively. Luckily, none of them were there, and Simon nursed a beer in a dark corner and tried to sort out his thoughts.
First things first. He had to see the will to verify that his dear Netty was telling the truth. It was still hard to believe that a lawyer, any lawyer, would be brazen enough to insert himself in a will and have unfettered access to an entire fortune. But the fact that he, the Honorable Simon Latch, was thinking of doing something very similar to that made him realize it was indeed possible. Upon Netty’s death, there would certainly be a massive legal brawl with lawsuits flying, but the only named trustee, at the moment one Wally Thackerman, would be in the driver’s seat.
Of course the fortune wouldn’t be $20 million. Last time he checked, the state and federal estate taxes were 40 percent, almost all of which could be avoided with the marital trust. However, since Netty had no husband, her estate would be on the chopping block and fair game for the tax collectors. Eight million in taxes up in smoke. He actually grimaced at the thought of paying so much to the government.
But $12 million was still more than he would earn working for thirty years at the corner of Main and Maple. Then he remembered something he’d read in a newspaper. Congress had been tinkering with the tax rates before its December recess. He couldn’t recall the details and usually did a half-ass job of staying informed, because his clients never worried about gift and estate taxes.
He called a buddy from law school who practiced in a prestigious tax firm in D.C., an hour away. After the usual chatter, he got around to business. Dirk, his friend, laughed and said, “Come on, Simon. You haven’t heard the big news?”
“I guess not.”
“Congress adjourned without repealing the amendment.”
Simon wasn’t sure what that meant so he kept quiet. Dirk liked to talk anyway. “Those clowns dropped the ball big-time. The estate tax deal fell through, no compromise, no tax. Zero, zilch, nada. For the next twelve months there will be no federal estate taxes, and, since most states follow the Feds, now is the perfect time to die. So tell your geezer clients to get their shit in order and get ready to pull the plug. Have a big Christmas this year, then it’s adios. Their kids and grandkids will love them for it.”