How did this person, this nice old lady he met for the first time only nine months earlier, enter his life in such a dramatic fashion? How had she lived for eighty-five fairly comfortable years and reached this point where she had no one to care for her but him? No family, no close friends except for Doris, who she had just practically killed.
He would admit, and only to himself, that greed was the driving force. Months earlier he could have done what she asked him to do, prepare a simple will for $250 and close the matter. And that’s exactly what would have happened if she had no money. Matilda would have filed her will away with hundreds of others and forgotten about it.
However, the client was certainly not poor and appeared to be quite vulnerable. His otherwise good judgment was corrupted by greed. He saw an easy way to take control of her money, a fortune that was wonderfully hidden from everyone. Under his clever control, it would remain a delightful secret.
He glanced at a digital clock in one corner of a monitor above her head. The green digits read 12:42.
He analyzed the chair and devised a maneuver to get himself into it without rupturing a disc. Once situated, he managed to lean back with his head resting on a wall. He studied the outline of her shrunken frame under the sheets. He listened to the soft, steady, obnoxious beating of a machine monitoring something. He heard the sounds of the nurses and orderlies shuffling along the hallway. And he wondered how any visitor could be expected to sleep in a hospital. The patients were drugged.
He closed his eyes and tried to breathe deeply.
There were so many issues to fret over. His dear Netty was about to face criminal charges for drunk driving. She was about to be sued by the folks she injured in the wreck. The lawsuit would allow the opposing lawyers to pry into her finances. The criminal charges and lawsuits would be public record.
The more Simon thought, the more problems arose. He opened his eyes and looked at the clock: 12:46.
Gently, he wiggled out of the chair and left the room. He took the stairs down two flights to the ground floor where he followed the signs to the cafeteria. All three of his children had been born in the hospital, but that was before it had been renovated several times. There were new wings and corridors with every visit. The cafeteria was closed, thus forcing him to buy coffee from a machine. He walked outside the building, took one sip, and poured out the rest.
He was contemplating an escape. Eleanor was knocked out and would sleep for hours. Why shouldn’t he do the same? He could hustle back to The Closet, sleep until 6 A.M., then shower and return to the hospital. There was no benefit in babysitting a woman who was in another world.
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.
He returned to the hospital at 7 A.M. and found her still sound asleep. He set up camp beside her bed with the morning papers and a tall cup of coffee, as if he’d been there all night. He coughed and rattled the papers and tried to make as much noise as possible. Eventually, Netty roused herself and opened her eyes. He sat on the edge of her bed and asked how she felt. She wasn’t sure. A doctor popped in and did a cursory exam of her bandages. After he left, Simon asked, “Would you like something to eat?”
“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.”