The Widow

Chapter 1

The clients drawn to the quaint little law office at the corner of Main and Maple brought problems that Simon was tired of. Bankruptcies, drunk driving charges, delinquent child support, foreclosures, nickel-and-dime car wrecks, suspicious slip-and-falls, dubious claims of disabilities—the stock-in-trade of a run-of-the-mill street lawyer whose law school dreams of riches had faded so dim they were almost gone. Eighteen years into the grind and Simon F. Latch, Attorney and Counselor (both) at Law, was burning out. He was weary of other people’s problems.

Occasionally there was a break in the misery when an aging client needed some estate work, like an updated last will and testament. These were almost always uncomplicated matters that any first-year law student could handle, regardless of how somber Simon tried to make them. For only $250, he could write, or “draft” as he preferred to say, a three-page simple will, print it on heavy gold bond paper, get it notarized by his “staff,” and convey the impression that the client was “executing” something profound.

The truth was half of them didn’t even need a will, regardless of how simple, though no lawyer in the history of American jurisprudence had ever said so to a paying client. It was also true that the $250 fee was a rip-off because the internet was filled with free simple wills that were just as binding. It was also true that Mr. Latch would hardly touch the will. Matilda, his secretary, filled in the blanks and printed the important documents.

The current client was Ms. Eleanor Barnett, age eighty-five, a widow who lived alone in a modest suburban home she and her late second husband had purchased ten years earlier. She had no children, though Harry Korsak, her last husband, had two sons from a bad first marriage and had tried for years to convince Eleanor, his beloved second wife, to adopt the pair for various reasons, none of which appealed to her because, as she confided to Matilda during their lengthy second phone chat, she loathed the boys. They were nothing but trouble.

“And do you have a mortgage on your home?” Matilda had asked, politely interrupting the beginning of what promised to be a windy narrative about the two sorry sons.

No. The house was paid for, as was the car. There were no debts. Harry Korsak had been quite frugal, a child of Depression-era parents, you know, and simply hated the idea of debt. Between phone calls, Matilda did her usual internet checking and learned that the home, as assessed by the county for $280,000, was indeed free of liens, and the car, a fifteen-year-old Lincoln, was also unencumbered. Digging a bit deeper, she found a rap sheet for Clyde Korsak, the elder of the two un-adopted sons. Decades earlier he had been caught peddling cocaine and spent four years in prison.

Ms. Barnett would not discuss any more financial matters over the phone, said she’d rather wait until her meeting with Mr. Latch. She arrived promptly at 2 p.m., dressed like a mildly affluent old lady on her way to church. Matilda had seen a thousand of them come and go, and she sized her up immediately as she poured coffee into a fine china cup she kept around for the old gals. Most clients got paper cups. Ms. Barnett walked just fine, no cane, no tottering, a good stride and nice gait, and she sat properly in a reception chair and sipped her coffee, pinkie in the air, a clear sign of either good manners or a trace of snobbery. From all outward appearances, she was in good shape physically, probably had another decade to go before her new last will and testament would be called into action.

After a few minutes, Matilda announced that Mr. Latch was finished with his “judicial conference call” and would like to see her. She led Ms. Barnett down a short hallway and into the conference room where the dark walls were lined with thick law books Mr. Latch hadn’t touched in years.

Simon’s goal was to be rid of her in thirty minutes. Add another thirty next week when the new will was properly signed, and he would earn, in theory, his hourly rate of $250. A good friend from law school was currently billing four times that much in a Washington tax firm, but Simon tried not to think about such things. Over the years he had almost convinced himself that his quality of life in the small town of Braxton, Virginia, was far better, money be damned.

He turned on the charm, as he always did with the older women, and knew right away that she was smitten. “That’s a lovely necklace,” he said, fawning.

She smiled and flashed a mouth full of natural, yellow teeth. “Why, thank you.”

“I see from the notes that you are single, live alone, and have no children or grandchildren. Two husbands, both deceased.” He scanned Matilda’s report as if reading the Magna Carta.

“And you kept the name Barnett after you married Mr. Korsak.”

“Well, not exactly. After Harry died I decided to go back to ‘Barnett.’ I never really liked the name Korsak, you know? Between the two of us, I enjoyed Vince Barnett a lot more than Harry Korsak. Vince and I were childhood sweethearts, you know, married young and sort of grew up together. We were younger and more romantically active, know what I mean?”

Simon knew exactly what she meant and had no desire to explore further. “Do you have a current will?”

“They don’t expire, do they?”

“Well, no, they don’t.”

“Yes, but I have doubts about it. I’d like to do a new one, and I want to hire you as my attorney for other matters. On a retainer.”

“What other matters concern you?”

“Oh, well, one never knows, especially nowadays with so much fraud and scamming out there. Senior citizens are the favorite targets. It’s just awful how many of them lose everything. I want to be protected, and I want you kept on retainer to review things for me. My friend Doris always keeps a lawyer on retainer.”

At the moment, Simon could think of nothing worse than being at the beck and call of an elderly client who thought she was being scammed. But if she insisted, then $1,000 might be a fair arrangement.

“How much is her retainer?”

“Oh, not much. She says you can get one pretty cheap.”

Simon took a deep breath and tried to get the consultation on track. “Let’s get back to your will. It’s important that I take a look at your previous one.”

“Yes, I know. Matilda out there mentioned it over the phone but I forgot to bring it. Seems like I’m forgetting more and more these days.”

Goes with the territory. If they were over eighty, he assumed a few marbles were missing. He and Matilda would confer later and decide if Ms. Barnett had sufficient mental capacity to understand what she was doing. But the first impression was good, and for $250, he was willing to worry only so much.

“Could you possibly drop it off in a day or so?”

“Yes, no problem. Sorry to be a pain.”

“Quite all right. We need to talk about your assets and liabilities.”

“There are no liabilities. Not one penny of debt. Harry, my late husband, despised debt. Wouldn’t even use a credit card. We lived free and clear.”

Simon loved the sound of those words and could only dream of one day clawing his way out of debt. “That’s admirable,” he said piously, as if she needed his blessings. Everything he owned was heavily mortgaged.

“But I got one after he died. A Visa card.”

He scribbled something meaningless and said, “Okay, what about assets? Do you own your home?” He knew she did but most older clients enjoyed bragging about the things they had accumulated. They were proud of their frugal lifestyles and that after decades of pinching pennies they were financially secure.

“I certainly do.”

“Any idea of its market value these days?”

“Well, not really, but the county has it assessed for two hundred and eighty thousand, I think. Something like that.”

“Okay, that’s close enough. The home is usually the biggest asset in a person’s estate.”

“Not in my case,” she said sharply, as if mildly offended.

He kept scribbling and absorbed the first hint that this little will might not be so simple. “Do you own other real estate? A vacation home? Rental properties?”

“Oh no. Harry didn’t like real estate. Said it was too much trouble.”

Then what, please, did Harry like? “I see. Do you have other investments?”

She took a deep breath and suddenly looked worried. “I can trust you, right, Mr. Latch?”

“Of course. I’m your lawyer, duty bound to keep everything confidential.” Simon noticed a slight flutter in his intestines, as if some truly wonderful and unexpected facts might be in the works. He’d had a few surprises in the past eighteen years as a pseudo estate lawyer, but nothing significant.

“Well, you see Mr. Latch—”

“Please call me Simon.”

“Simon, what a nice name. You see, Simon, Harry worked for almost forty years as a district sales rep for Coca-Cola. I think that’s what killed him. He got his blood sugar up, had a stroke at sixty-nine, never recovered. We always had plenty of Coke, the real thing, not diet, in the fridge and he drank too many, at least in my opinion. Anyway, he qualified for stock options, a few at a time, and he bought every share of Coke he could get his hands on. Never sold a share, just enjoyed watching it pile up. And boy did it. Then about thirty years ago, he began selling Coke products to Wal-Mart and became fascinated with the company. It was selling a lot of soft drinks. Harry began buying stock in Wal-Mart and he never sold a share. When he died suddenly, he was wondering what to do with all that stock. He didn’t want to leave it to his boys, because they were nothing but trouble. Still are. And here’s the thing, Simon, the boys don’t know about the stock. Harry never told them, never told anyone but me. He thought it was funny that we lived quietly in our modest little home and no one knew we were worth millions.”

Millions? Simon managed to keep scribbling on his yellow legal pad but his handwriting, illegible on a good day, quickly deteriorated into nothing more than chicken scratch. At that moment, he could not remember a single will he had ever drafted for a person worth a million dollars, excluding the real estate.

He maintained a lawyerly frown as if thoroughly unfazed. “What, uh, did he do with all that stock?”

“He left it to me, along with everything else. What’s it called—‘the marital deduction’?”

“Yes, that’s it. You can leave everything to your spouse free of estate taxes. Harry must have been a smart man.”

“Funny thing, he never claimed to be smart. He was quite modest, worked hard, paid his debts, saved his money, bought his stocks, then left it all to me. He wanted to do something to help his sons, and, frankly, he tried everything. But if they had known about his portfolio they would have driven him crazy. So, he never told them. Then he died suddenly.”

It was rare for a client seeking a simple will to throw around words like “portfolio” and “marital deduction.” Simon’s radar went up another notch or two.

“What’s the value of the portfolio?”

She actually put a hand over her mouth as if she couldn’t say. Then she rubbed her eyes and looked frightened. She lowered her voice and said, “And all of this is strictly confidential, right?”

“We’ve already established that, Ms. Barnett. If you want me to draft a proper will, then I have to know what’s in the estate. A simple will may not be what you need.” He could almost feel the new document growing thicker by the moment. And the retainer was growing too, now up to $5,000.

“If people only knew. My friends, Harry’s boys. No one knows, Simon.”

Simon flashed a comforting smile, as if to say, You can tell me anything. Instead, he said, “These walls are made of steel, Ms. Barnett. Nothing leaks through. I’m ethically bound to keep all your secrets.”

Fortified, she gritted her teeth and said, “As of last week, the stocks were worth slightly more than sixteen million. The market goes up and down, you know?”

Simon scribbled down the number while managing to keep a solemn poker face, as if this was nothing out of the ordinary.

She leaned in closer and asked, “That’s a lot, right?”

“It is.”

“Is it pretty unusual?”

“I’d say yes. I rarely get a client with this type of net worth.” Rarely? How about never?