Die Judge Die: A Fiona Gavelle Mystery Read online

I liked him, but didn’t know exactly what to do to help him. The last time one of my clients was in a nursing home, I was accused of kidnapping.

  Chapter Six

  The judge’s daughter was in a hurry to meet with me, but she had other commitments for each appointment I suggested. We met late in the week and it was not amiable. She was an hour and a half late for her 4 PM appointment and I am fairly certain she spent the time in a bar.

  “Thissss is your office?” She looked around while plopping into one of the client chairs. Her eyes were blinking rapidly. Her face had a huge grin. Her hair was a popsicle orange color above her ears and bright red below.

  Meghan Page was around thirty years old with a little too much makeup. It was hard to tell if she was pretty since her eyes were blood shot and her eyebrows were drawn in rather severely (with a pencil). Her blouse was rumpled and she wore only one earring, probably not deliberately.

  Working so hard at not caring called attention to her pain like a bugle fanfare.

  I have stopped apologizing for my wee office. It is small. It is shabby even with my escalating law library of twelve books. However, since I am fairly new to the practice, the size and condition of the office are commensurate with my low hourly rate and wee knowledge of the law.

  My interest in renting a classy office is outweighed by my fear of catapulting myself into debt and ruin. Too much opulence could scare clients away. Go figure.

  Meghan declined a bottle of water and a cup of tea. I thought she would accept a shot or boiler maker if I offered.

  “Thank you for asking me to review your mother’s probate matter. I’d like to start with standard questions about her estate.”

  After I spewed my memorized opening statement for a probate estate interview, I realized it needed serious editing.

  She nodded.

  “Did your mother have a will or trust?”

  “My mother was too cheap to pay anyone to make a will. The idea of paying an attorney for anything was foreign to my mother. She thought lawyers were overpaid and she loved to cut a lawyer’s fees in court.

  She considered herself in the prime of her life at almost fifty. She didn’t think death would catch up with her until she was ninety years old. She spent money on creams and spa treatments and things to try to restore her body to that of a twenty year old. She never paid a penny to charity or to help me. For a while I lived in a shelter after my marriage disintegrated into chaos. Oh and did you know she keeps a younger man?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, without meaning it or responding to her well rehearsed soliloquy.

  Meghan was out of breath and it appeared that most of her fervor had discharged.

  “I bought the cheapest funeral they had because I need the money,” she added softly. “You know, my inheritance.”

  “Did you sign the contract for the funeral individually?”

  “Oh yes, I signed Minnie Mouse, so they can’t sue me, I watch enough television to know what to do.” She smiled waiting for my approval.

  “Did you give them a driver’s license?”

  She frowned and became otherwise still for what seemed like several minutes. I think she saw the folly of her action.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  Who wears a red dress and matching hat to her mother’s funeral? Now I had the answer, a woman who signs cartoon names on a contract thinking it would exclude liability.

  “Was her friend at church?”

  “He isn’t a friend, he is a leech, a boy toy. She probably brought him home from the car wash or the gym,” she sneered.

  “So was he there?” I didn’t recognize anyone other than Adam Curie.

  “No,” she admitted and started to hiccup.

  Although I thought talking about fees might scare the hiccups out of her, I stayed with the boyfriend issue.

  “Is he still living at her house?”

  “Condo.”

  “Do you know if he’s still there?”

  “I’m not shuuure,” she answered, slurring again. Her eyes darted around the office.

  We paused, both trying to get control of the interview.

  “You’re probably wondering why I dressed too merrily, right?” She seemed intent on amusing me with her weirdness.

  I shrugged trying to maintain my professionalism and not wade into the muck of her drama.

  “It was to show her the contempt and indifference she showed me my entire life,” she answered in a stiff distant tone.

  With my wisdom, garnered from all of eight probate matters I issued a declaration. “There are a lot of emotions that enter into probate cases. Since you’re an only child, they really don’t need to be aired, do they?”

  My observation was not appreciated. Still, I didn’t feel sorry for her. While you can blame a crummy childhood for problems, after a while, you have to let it go.

  Actually I didn’t want the estate but for the fact that it was of a dead judge, it was prestigious. It would mean a nice fee. Probate is the most lucrative area I practice.

  One thing is certain, while every family in probate has baggage, Meghan might need a porter.

  “How did you know that?”

  “What?” I asked.

  “That I’m an only child.”

  “The obituary,” I answered.

  “Shureee,” she slurred. She blinked repeatedly as if trying to get used to contact lens.

  I waited for her to stop blinking.

  “What dooyaa need from me?”

  We reviewed how probate works and the advance for costs for filing the case. We talked about what assets were subject to probate. I made a note to watch how she signed my fee agreement.

  When we talked about money, specifically paying me, Meghan looked like she would bolt out of the office. The liquor was bound to make her drowsy soon, so I abbreviated the interview.

  Meghan knew nothing about her mother’s finances.

  We discussed ordering copies of the tax returns, but that would require opening the probate estate. Assuming we would go forward, I reviewed the details about the first steps in probate administration. We would send a letter for the tenant to vacate the condo.

  “He isn’t a tenant, he was her boyfriend,” she tried to correct me.

  “I get that, but if we send him a ten day notice to get out, we should be able to gage how much trouble he will be. Do you think she made a will in his favor?”

  She shrugged a don’t know answer. “I think she was too selfiiiiiiiiiiish,” she repeated.

  “Do you know how much equity your Mother has in the condo?” I have a rule not to use past tense in decedent’s estates unless and until the client corrects me. Verb changes sometimes cause great emotional pain, at other times they are a sign of starting to move on.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Has she owned the home very long?”

  “About three or four or five years I think. We were not close.”

  “Do you think her estate could be insolvent?”

  “It would not surprise me. Wait, when you say insolvent, what doooooya mean?”

  “Insolvency means there’s not enough cash or assets to pay the claims, attorney fees and funeral costs. It means you will not receive any inheritance,” I explained succinctly.

  She was very surprised and not in a good way.

  “But I put five hundred dollars down on the funeral. And she has a condo. And I’m her only child,” her voice and her argument escalated in frustration.

  I shrugged.

  It seemed unlikely that a judge would die broke or worse, owing money, but the economy and real estate market status changed everything. Many mortgages were called ‘underwater’ since the market values were below the amount owed to the bank.

  “Do you know anything else about the boyfriend,” I asked without diplomacy.

  “No. He could be gone. Long gone I hope.”

  “Could you head over to the building and find the condo association and ask for access to her unit?”<
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  “Would they let me in? I don’t have a key.”

  “You can ask. You could go to the building and knock on a few doors. A neighbor may have a key, or someone from the condo board might help you.”

  “What would I say?”

  “You would tell them that the Judge was your mother and that you need access to her condo to collect the important papers.”

  “Isn’t that vague?”

  “The object is to get into the condo and to see what you can find about her finances. See if the boyfriend is still there.

  As a judge, your mother was earning a nice salary with benefits. Where did she work before she was appointed to the bench?”

  “She worked for the county, the county as in Cook.”

  My heart soared.

  “She should have a pension,” I projected in optimism.

  Meghan let out a happy whimper. “Will I inherit that?”

  “Very possibly.” At this point I wanted her to inherit so she would not complain about my fee.

  “But what if I go to the apartment and the boy toy is there?”

  “Stand your ground and tell him you need to collect her important papers. Since he skipped the funeral he may already be gone. Take a friend with you. If he’s gone, call a locksmith and change the locks. If there is a car, disconnect the battery for now.”

  Insolvent estates were not unheard of and were increasing in numbers according to bar journals (lawyer magazines). Meghan needed to collect more information to protect herself. I also didn’t want to get involved in an estate that was insolvent.

  Meghan Page assumed she was coming into a windfall and would not have to advance any money. I felt the same way.

  Chapter Seven

  Over at Know Acres, I met with Mr. Eddy Szem. He was a pleasant man who smiled and raised his eyebrows when I stuck my head in the door. He had very large teeth, his hair had comb marks and I liked him immediately. His speech had a laugh built in to every several sentences. I was guessing his age to be at least seventy five.

  “Are you my lawyer?” He looked at me like he was hungry and I was a prime steak.

  We exchanged niceties and he asked for five of my business cards.

  “I waited here in my room for you so you could find me with my name on the door, but I would like to have our meeting in the library. It’s downstairs. Is that alright?”

  “Sure I would like to work at a table.” I imagined his request was due to the fact that it looked improper for us to meet in his room. No problem. I liked the decorum.

  Eddy Szem had recently shaved with a piece of toilet paper stuck on his chin. He had on a white shirt with a dark thin tie and casual slacks. His socks matched one another as did his shoes. He stood slowly but almost outpaced me in the hallway. When he walked he leaned to the left.

  At the elevator, he stopped and offered me his arm with a huge smile. How sweet was that?

  The library was well decorated although it sported few books. He pulled out my chair and almost sprinted to close the door.

  “A lot of nosey people here,” he explained.

  I didn’t know what to say when he started to unbutton his shirt. He pulled a sheaf of papers from inside his shirt and handed them to me. They were warm with a hint of a popular bar soap. I exhaled.

  “This is what I got about seven or eight months ago,” he handed me a stack of papers.

  As I started to look at the paperwork, he interrupted me.

  “Could I tell you now that we are together,” he asked.

  I nodded my agreement.

  “You can read the papers later. I want to tell you in my own words what happened. See, I had a heart attack. I was at Northwest Hospital for about a week and then they sent me to this rat hole. I had to lift my arms twelve times, they made me walk back and forth. Look at this picture and draw a circle. I was dealing with a bunch of idiots. Or, maybe they thought they were.”

  “Is this physical therapy you are talking about?”

  “Yes, that’s it. Physical therapy, speech therapy, occupational therapy, cognitive evaluations. All evaluations talking, putting my shirt on, all pretty ridiculous even getting into areas that are private. So I went along, you know.

  Then one night after I was already in bed, a guy from the court came out. I would guess it was after ten pm. I was tired, I could barely keep my eyes open to understand what he was saying. I think they give me a sleeping pill even though I was tired from all the lifting my arm stuff.

  He told me the Department on Aging was going to take over my money. He said the court hearing would be the next day and again in a month and he left me these papers. You can take them with you. I am worried that we will have enough time to talk.”

  He took a very dainty sip of water before continuing.

  “I told him I didn’t need anyone to take over my money. I pay my own bills and take care of myself. After I retired I travelled a little, alone. I went on a cruise and on a cowboy weekend in Arizona. Oh, and I went on a weekend to Las Vegas too, a couple of times in fact.”

  “Did you go to court?”

  “No, the guy who came here said I was too sick to travel downtown.”

  “The lawyer told you that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you want to go to court?” I asked.

  “No, yes, I don’t know. He said I wasn’t allowed to leave this place. He said it would cost a lot of money and that he didn’t have time to set it up. He asked if I had cab fare. But they took my wallet, I don’t have any money in my pocket. I always had money in my pocket. I feel like a bum.”

  “Did you talk to your own lawyer?”

  “I don’t have a lawyer, only the guy who did the closing on my house. He’s probably dead by now. Who would I call? I’ve never been arrested, never had a speeding ticket.”

  I nodded.

  “No, anyway, this guy from the court said he was my lawyer. I asked how that was possible since I never met him. He said the judge could do anything she wanted to do. Those were his words.”

  I nodded. “I’ll make copies and return these to you.”

  “I have them almost memorized. Read them, they’re awful.” He shook his head until or because his eyes watered. “They call me disabled. I am not disabled and I do -not -have -dementia.”

  Eddy’s last four words were emphasized with pursed lips and anger. A little embarrassed at his own passion, he corralled his emotions with a sigh.

  “When I finished all the lift your arm, put your shirt on stuff, the therapist said I was ready for discharge. So I packed my things, everything fit into a small garbage bag, and I called a taxi. I was looking forward to going home. I dream about a broiled steak, going to the casino, driving my car, going out to lunch, I was so excited.”

  “When was this?”

  “Maybe two months back, it’s hard to keep track of time here, everyday’s about the same.”

  I nodded again in resignation.

  “But no cab came, I went to the front desk and they told me I couldn’t leave until my doctor signed the order. They said I could be charged, instead of my insurance for the time I spent here if my doctor did not sign me out. The nurse came and said it was a lot to live here. So I went along, you know, and they ushered me back to this stinking room.”

  “And what did the doctor say?”

  “I waited, a day, then two, and asked when the doctor would see me about discharge. The nurse said he would be around in another day or two. So, you know, I went along. They pulled the wool and the whole hat over my eyes. I should never have gone along with them.”

  He coughed, had another dainty sip of water and continued. “The water would go down better with a little scotch.”

  He laughed softly. “You can’t get a beer here either. It’s like prison without the uniforms.”

  As our interview went on, I liked Eddy more. However, I didn’t have a clue how to help him.

  “Is it your internist who comes to see you here?”

 
“No, my doctor doesn’t have privileges here and so I was assigned to a Dr. Smellweel. When I didn’t hear from him, I asked the nurse to call him. And like a dummy I waited. Then I asked for his number and the nurse said he was away on a medical conference.”

  “Help me out, what is the time frame?” I asked.

  Eddy pursed his lips and tried to think of an answer. “It’s hard, Ms. Lawyer, all the days run together here. But I tell you this, I want to go home. I took care of all my bills and now I don’t know what has happened to my electric and gas bills. I didn’t file my tax returns, I always do that on time with P and Q service. I’m worried about my house and my car, I had a one year old Seville. Most beautiful car I ever had. Cream colored with leather seats.

  I’m fine, I want to live my life again. I want to see my friends and go to church or a bar or wherever I want. I want to sleep and get up when I decide. I want to get a manicure and go to my meditation class again.

  I don’t even know where my checkbook is anymore. I don’t have my house keys. They took everything away from me.”

  “Other than the night the lawyer from the court came when you were already in bed, how many times has he been out to see you?”

  “That was the only time. He left his business card and I called and left messages at his office, but never heard from him again. Oh there is a letter I got from someone from the court. I remember receiving it, but think someone took it out of my drawer. Nothing locks here you know.”

  Eddy said he didn’t have cash, I wondered how he planned on paying the cab? Maybe a neighbor, or a cash stash at the house? How would he get into his house? Was there a key under a rock?

  Back in downtown Chicago, I stopped at the County Building and did a title search on the address Eddy gave me. He was right, his name was on title to the house. There was no mortgage, but there was a lis pendens, filed by the Department on Aging. The court case number matched the documents Eddy provided.

  The Department on Aging is the government group that takes guardianship for people without family or friends who can step up. They created havoc with another client of mine.

  A lis pendens is a hold placed against real estate. It means you will have trouble selling the real estate. Oddly, it isn’t a court judgment, but something that can be recorded against your house because of a pending law suit.