Chapter 19

  After another restless night that was continually interrupted by nightmares of handcuffs and headlines, Simon went downstairs, in jeans and a T-shirt, and made coffee. It promised to be another dreary Monday. He had a list of eleven unpleasant phone calls that he had carried over from the last unproductive week. First, though, he had to deal with his wealthiest client and her mounting legal problems.

  He actually paused for a moment and stared at his phones. Which one should he use? Cell or landline? Since he was such a small-time gambler, would the FBI really have an interest in him? Would Yolanda send him a warning if he were a serious target? And would they really be listening in? Such thoughts had kept him awake all night. He decided to use the old phone on his desk.

  Regarding Eleanor’s auto insurance, he felt compelled to at least notify the company that she had received three tickets for moving violations. He was careful to point out that he, as her lawyer, was contesting the charges, and that there had been no final adjudication. He was just putting Allstate on notice.

  He placed a call to the city prosecutor’s office and talked to a secretary. The assistant prosecutors were quite busy, it was after all a Monday morning, but someone would call him back. Half an hour later, a rookie prosecutor called to inform Mr. Latch that she did not have the authority to reduce the penalties for traffic violations. She was stiff and important and seemed to equate bad driving with capital murder. After the call, Simon checked her out online and learned that she finished law school in May and had just passed the bar exam.

  His banker finally called him back just before ten, and Simon was forced to sing and dance through the same routine about needing another jolt to his line of credit. The terms of that wretched agreement were clear and did not require him to justify anything. The $25,000 was there for his taking, no questions asked, but he was expected to notify the bank before hitting it again.

  He cursed the line of credit every day of his life. The damned thing was not his fault. Five years earlier, he had been working at his desk late one night when he saw a pile of mail Tillie had opened and left in the in-tray on his desk. The friendly solicitation from Union Bank asked, “Do you need $10,000?” In fact, at that moment he did. The first paragraph proclaimed that the money was his because he had somehow qualified. No application. No credit check. No security. No repayments for twelve months. The money was his simply because he was a self-employed lawyer. Cautiously, he signed on for only $4,000. That relieved some pain and was so easy. Within the year he was up to the limit, needed more, and the bank happily raised him to $15,000. His excuse had been a dispute with the IRS, something the bank heard all the time from lawyers. More tax problems followed and the bank finally stopped the bleeding at $25,000.

  After the first round of Monday morning phone calls, he was in a dark mood and decided to make matters even worse. There would never be a good time to tell Tillie, and doing so would not be pleasant. So why not do it during an already awful day, as opposed to ruining a good one?

  Just before lunch he asked her to step into his office, close the door, have a seat, and ignore the phone. Neither could remember the last time she sat down in his office.

  “Paula and I are getting a divorce.”

  She took it with a sad face but also with a little nod that said she figured as much. Indeed, she had known for some time that the marriage was not stable. “I’m so sorry.”

  “You’ve probably noticed that I’ve been spending a lot of time here at the office.”

  “Are you living here?”

  “Basically, yes.”

  “I’m sorry, Simon. It must be awful.”

  “It is, especially for the children. But it’s also been awful with the two of us living in the same house.”

  Tillie and Paula had long since realized that their lives were easier if they remained in their own separate corners. Paula had lost interest in Simon’s career years earlier and wanted nothing to do with it, except, of course, the income it generated and what that meant to their ever-straining budget. Tillie had always seen her as aloof, probably because she had a college degree and a professional job.

  “May I ask if things are civilized?”

  “You may and they are, for the most part. I’ve prepared a simple property settlement agreement and she’s considering it. She gets everything, basically, including the kids. I have liberal visitation. We’re splitting expenses, with me paying the mortgage. So far, no fireworks. There are no allegations of bad behavior.”

  “This is so sad.”

  “It is, but we’ll be okay. I’m determined to get through it and move on to a happier life, hopefully. It should not impact you in any way.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about myself, Simon.”

  “I know. I appreciate the work you do here, Tillie, and I know I don’t say that enough.”

  “Thank you, Simon. I like my job.”

  “That’s good to hear. And on another unhappy note, I’ve gone to the bank again because Paula needs some cash. You know how much I hate to do that, but I have no choice.”

  “Your call, boss.” She smiled and got to her feet. “And, if you need someone to talk to, I’m always here. With, you know, the female perspective. Plus, I have one divorce under my belt so I’ve been through it.”

  “Thank you.”

  She turned and walked to the door. Simon couldn’t help but admire the view. Tillie was really getting in shape. After she closed the door, Simon pondered something that he should have already noticed. Tillie was a brighter, happier person these days, and she was spending more time not only in the gym but also at the mirror. The clothes, in smaller sizes, were more stylish and flattering.

  Could it be that Tillie, after a long dry spell, had found someone new? He certainly hoped so.

  Chapter 20

  Eleanor was getting pushier about their lunches, which she was now describing as their “dates.” Simon was suffering through them because they might lead to a pot of gold. However, the culinary adventure had been his idea and he couldn’t stop it. Plus, he was getting closer to Netty and she was relying on him more and more. She even let it slip that she “needed” him.

  Her friend Doris had eaten twice at the Bombay Oven, a quaint little café in a converted gas station five miles west of town. Eleanor was determined to go there, if for no other reason than to keep up with Doris, who was quite envious that her friend was lunching with a handsome young lawyer. The more Simon heard about Doris, the less he wanted to meet her.

  He arrived early as always so he could scope out the parking situation and position himself, low behind the wheel, to study Eleanor’s driving ability. It was a county road with little traffic, but Netty managed to find plenty of it. When she came into view, puttering along in the old Lincoln at no more than thirty miles an hour, there were a dozen cars bumper-to-bumper behind her. As she slowed even more and began to pull off the road, the idea of a turning signal never crossed her mind. Horns were blowing as the traffic passed.

  He helped her out of her car. She looked great, as always, ready for church in a pretty blue dress, one he’d seen several times, a floral scarf bunched around her neck, dark hose, low heels. As they entered the café, Simon half-expected to smell diesel fuel and axle grease, but the interior was ultra-modern with black and white tiled floors, mirrors, glass, and tables adorned with linen cloths.

  So much for a cheap lunch, he thought to himself. They ordered tea and a baked flatbread to get started. The restaurant was quiet and not crowded, the tables spaced reasonably apart. Simon had an agenda but did not want to hurry. These outings meant a lot to Eleanor.

  After some chitchat about their complete lack of knowledge of Indian cuisine, they put down the menus. She got serious with “Wally Thackerman called again this morning.”

  “Again?”

  “Yes, he’s been calling for a month now, wants me to come to his office to review my estate and such.”

  At that moment, Simon could think of nothing in his complicated life that was as important as Eleanor’s estate. The idea of another lawyer, especially a worm like Wally, getting anywhere near it was quite unsettling.

  He gave a nonchalant shrug and asked, “What did you tell him?”

  “I’m not a liar, Simon,” she said, with a look that implied he thought she would lie.

  “Who said you were?” he asked, defensively.

  “I told him I wasn’t feeling well, which at that moment was a true statement because his calls were upsetting me. But he isn’t going away, evidently. What are we going to do?”

  Shoot the little bastard, Simon instantly thought, but let it pass. “Well, we could always call Clyde and tell him to come on back and finish the job.” Simon was smiling at his own humor. Eleanor was not.

  “Sorry, just joking.”

  “I’m serious here, Simon. I still feel deceitful for not telling Wally the truth, that I’ve signed another will and the one he prepared is no good. This just doesn’t seem right.”

  “And you think Wally’s been up-front with you? Keep in mind, Netty, he secretly hid a gift to himself in your will and didn’t tell you about it. Almost half a million dollars. You’re not dealing with an ethical person here. As I have explained, more than once, you have no obligation to inform Wally about our will. And why worry, Netty? You have at least ten more years, maybe twenty.”

  That made her smile. The waitress brought over a platter of naan with a bowl of spiced garlic hummus. They each took a bite. She said, “Well, what if I go to his office and talk to him, just to see what he’s up to? I don’t have to tell him anything and I don’t have to agree to anything, right?”

  “Right. Great idea. Go sit with Wally, talk about his episode with Clyde, and so on. See what he’s thinking.”

  “That’s what I’ll do.”

  When the waitress returned, Simon said, “An Indian friend recommended the kofta, meatballs stuffed with pork and onions and other things, and your chicken curry.”

  “I’ll take the same,” Eleanor said.

  The waitress sized them up and said, “I recommend that you go pretty light on the spices, okay?”

  They agreed and she took their menus.

  Simon said, “I’d like to finish the conversation about your final arrangements, if you don’t mind.”

  “That’s not one of my favorite topics.”

  “Understood. But we’re talking about dying, Netty, otherwise you would never have called my office in the first place. As soon as we can get all the paperwork done, then we can stop talking about dying.”

  She crunched on some flatbread and looked like she was about to cry. “Do you really think I’ll live ten more years?”

  “Yes, at least ten,” he said with a smile.

  “And you think I should do the cremation thing?”

  “Yes, I really do. It’s quick, easy, and more sustainable for the environment.”

  “Okay. If you insist.”

  Simon scribbled some meaningless notes on a small scrap of paper. “What about your funeral service? I asked you to write down some ideas.”

  “That’s ten years away.”

  “Look, Netty, I really don’t want to be doing this. I’m your lawyer, not a blood relative. This is a job for someone in your family, you understand? I don’t really care how you want to be buried.”

  She burst into tears and he felt like a heel for whatever he’d said. She removed her glasses and wiped her eyes. Simon looked around to see if anyone was watching. She put her glasses back on, swallowed hard, and said, “I have no one. I’ve told you this.”

  “I’m sorry, Netty. I didn’t mean to upset you. But, again, the sooner we get these matters wrapped up, the sooner we can stop talking about them.”

  “I’ve made some notes about my service and I’ll bring them next time. It will be a small affair in the chapel at the funeral home with the Lutheran minister doing the honors. Just a few friends, that’s all. My niece and nephew will never know I’m gone. So sad, isn’t it, Simon? To have no one.”

  She looked as if she might cry some more and he truly felt sorry for her. The chicken curry arrived first in small bowls. The aroma was delicious and they ate in silence for a few minutes.

  She took a drink of tea and said, “Well, sorta glad we asked them to go light on the spices. This stuff is hot.”

  “It’s delicious though,” Simon said. He drank some tea and decided to lunge forward. There was really no way around it. “There’s another matter, Netty, that is somewhat delicate.”

  “Oh dear. You lawyers.”

  “Yes, you’re spot-on. Lawyers work by the hour. Our time is all we have to sell, and I’m spending a lot of it handling your legal matters.”

  “Where is this going?” she asked suspiciously. Her look and tone were so cautious, Simon thought he was making a mistake. But it didn’t matter anymore. He couldn’t work for free.

  “I need to get paid, Netty, same as any other lawyer in town. You’re my favorite client right now, but all clients have to pay their lawyers. It’s that simple.”

  “Harry didn’t believe in paying lawyers.”

  “Yes, and Harry’s been dead for ten years. I’m not being disrespectful, but I really don’t care what Harry thought about lawyers. I have an office to pay for and a family to support, and I need to be paid.”

  “How much?”

  What a question. Simon had struggled with it for weeks. If he went high she might be offended and walk out the door. He doubted that would happen, but he did not want to appear greedy. Bigger bucks were around the corner. He had to keep Netty happy. And if he went low, he would not get the fees he had earned and so desperately needed. He had decided to aim for the middle, and said, “Just over three thousand dollars.”

  She waved him off with a casual flick of the wrist and said, “Is that all?”

  What beautiful words. He could always make up later with a heftier bill. “Yes, Netty, my fees are very fair. I enjoy my clients.”

  What a lie.

  “I’ll take care of it,” she said as she took a bite. “When do we go to court?”

  She was thinking of traffic court. Simon had his mind on probate. They were in different worlds.

  “Couple of weeks. I’ll check the docket.” Oh how lawyers loved the word docket. It implied important trials and hearings in crowded courtrooms with justice hanging in the balance. But in traffic court it was little more than a sign-up sheet hanging on a clipboard.

  The meatballs arrived with an aroma that was even more sumptuous. Netty said, “You promised me I’d meet your family, Simon. I’ll bet your wife and kids are adorable.”

  Not exactly. Janie was a delight to be around, but the others were too troubled. Paula would never consent to meeting someone like Netty, not with the divorce hanging over their heads. She wanted nothing to do with her husband or his practice. Buck and Danny were awkward teenagers who had never learned to shake hands and introduce themselves to adults. They had no desire to meet anyone over the age of eighteen.

  Simon smiled and lied, “I promise, I promise. Everybody is just so busy. School, soccer, drama, choir, piano, homework. Seems like every day is booked. I’ll try to get them all together sometime.”

  Dessert was rice pudding topped with pistachios and sliced almonds, with strong coffee that Simon needed for the afternoon. Ninety minutes after they sat down, the waitress placed the check on the table. Once again, Eleanor, who constantly gazed about the dining room while eating and seemed to miss nothing, commenting occasionally on other dishes being served, on the decor, on what another cultured lady might be wearing, was totally oblivious to the bill.

  This was at least their seventh lunch. Simon finally put down a credit card and paid again. $77.35. An expensive lunch for rural Virginia. He’d get it back.

  Driving to the office, he schemed to rework his monthly bill, add in a lunch or two, and pad things a bit. She had scoffed at his initial amount with words he would remember: Is that all? He vowed to send her a more impressive bill.

  Truthfully, he didn’t care what the lunch had cost because he and Netty had cleared the air about his fees. He was about to get paid for the first time in the many months he had known her.

  Since it would be impossible to hide the billing and receipts from his secretary, he met with her that afternoon and described his business with Eleanor Barnett. Some of it. He was billing her several hours for two matters: (1) representation in traffic court, and (2) consultation for estate planning. The bill was $3,650 and Tillie mailed it that afternoon.

  He did not tell Tillie that he had prepared a will for Eleanor, saying only that they were still discussing her estate, one that had become more “complicated.” Tillie took this in stride, knowing full well that he was lying.

  Chapter 21

  The line of credit was stretched yet again. Simon received an email notice from the bank informing him that $12,000 had just been deposited in his personal checking account.

  The money provided several options. The first, and the most sensible and obvious, was to write a check to Paula so she would sign the property settlement agreement and get the divorce filed.

  The second was to make a withdrawal, stuff $7,900 in an envelope, try to find Chub somewhere away from his clubs, and pay off his gambling debts once and for all.

  The third was to take all the money, pack a bag, book a flight to the Virgin Islands, and disappear. No more fear of being watched by the FBI, no more worries about debts, no more nitpicking phone calls from disgruntled clients, no more stress from Paula, no more sleeping on a bed with all the comforts of a surplus army cot, and no more scheming of ways to get rich off Eleanor Barnett. Drinking on the beach seemed like the perfect solution.