| me and probate |
I’ll start with Claire—my ex-wife. We married in 1963, divorced 5 years and 2 children later and I became a deadbeat dad—not by choice but temperament—the inability to maintain steady employment—a long story. I became a deadbeat dad and Claire became a single mother responsible for the raising of 2 small children and somehow, following that one, the relationship was never the same. But she was fond of my parents and devoted to my mother. My father died in 2001 and my mother 3 years later and when I visited the bank to close out the account—there was no account. The account had been closed and the funds relocated north—to a bank in Marin County. I could have put 2 and 2 together but didnt need to. Claire had access to the account—to write checks for assisted living and other expenses. Also she was a paralegal and savvy businesswoman and when it came to jumping on money that would or should have found its way to myself—highly motivated. Either way the money was gone and what could I do? Not much. It wasnt a fortune--$15,000 or so but I was struggling financially at the time—to go along with all the other times and she was a millionaire (real estate) so I sat down to write a letter in the supplicating—or maybe pathetic vein— hoping to appeal to some charitable instinct and—big surprise—there was no reply. I let it pass. Connie and Frank Ill call Connie “Goodj” because that is what everyone called her—a name given as a child and why or how remains a mystery. She was my mothers sister—the baby sister— and they were close. She had no children of her own and when I was born it was to enter the world with 2 mothers. I became a surrogate son and growing up spent a lot of time with her and Frank—maybe more than my own parents. At one point I lived with them for a year—a long story. Goodj was devoted to my mother and adored my father. There was between them some mystic bond. She was Sicilian, from a family of peasants and my Dad was a jew— the sporting type— a snappy dresser, also handsome and also, to complete the picture—funny. But to be funny you need someone to laugh at the jokes—an audience—and in goodj he had found the audience of his dreams. He didnt even need to speak—only deliver a look in her direction and she would become hysterical. Compound Interest The interesting thing about this marriage was the impressive amount of money they were able to sock away over the years that derived entirely from 2 low income jobs—Goodj as a part timer at Sweet Kleen laundry on Kenmore ave in Buffalo—the home town--and Frank who humped it as a driver over at Eddie Jays wholesale meat products. But Goodj was a saver—the saver of savers. I enjoyed teasing her by making the point that a visit to the market armed with a purse stuffed with coupons clipped from the Sunday edition of the Buffalo Courier Express—and she hits checkout with a cart full of groceries and household supplies and empties the purse of coupons onto the counter and the clerk totes up the credits and the store owes her money. She loved that one. Also you may recall a statement of Einstein--asked the greatest mathematical discovery of all time and E says: compound interest. So there you have it—the magic of compound interest applied to my aunts amazing gift for making one dollar do the work of two and it all continues to occur over a period of 70 years and the result is: a fortune. Now they were old, pushing 90 with the end in sight and here was all this money and who would get it? Claire would get it. That was my view. Its the person who is there at the end who gets the money. Connie and frank lived in the town of San Leandro, a suburb of Oakland. Claire was a short drive away over in Marin County. I was a long drive away down in Los Angeles. Claire was the one keeping an eye on them—shopping and running errands, doing the books and attending to the usual medical emergencies,etc. What about a will? Was there a will? A good question. I heard mention of a document from time to time over the years but the details were unclear. The only thing to be said for certain was: if a will existed my mothers name would be on it. But either way, will or no will, Claire was a paralegal and savvy business woman who had jumped on my mothers money and now we werent talking about $15,000 but something in the mid six-figures—easy—and for her to obtain power of attorney or have a will drawn up or affix a codicil to an existing document would have been a slamdunk. And she wouldnt wait until the last minute. In my view it was a fait accompli—accomplied months or even years before and what could I do? Not much. I spoke to a lawyer—a probate type-who said: people can leave their money to anyone or thing they want. If some kind of coercion is involved—thats a different story. But coercion is always difficult to prove. Claire wasnt the coercive or abusive type. She was a good woman and fond of Goodj and Frank and someone had to take care of them and it was her. But she wasnt so fond of me. We had been divorced for many years and the relationship had its ups and downs. Right now it existed in a state of neutral. But when it came to the family we were always able to set our differences aside and pitch in to help. My mothers last years holed up in an assisted living facility in Los Angeles were diffcult and Claire called her every day. Jimmy Durante I was still close to them. I called regularly and drove up from time to time to see friends in the city and drop in for a visit and also, not to forget, feel them out about the money—a touchy subject and you raised it at your peril. I recall the last visit. I was staying in the City and took BART to the East Bay to the San Leandro station and hoofed it from there to the apt a few blocks away. I carried a bag of goodies for Goodj— cannolis from Stellas in North Beach. All cannolis are not created equal and those from Stellas are at the top of the list and should be for $4.00 a pop. I was fond of my aunt. I adored her. She was a sweet woman and—equally important— fun. She awoke every morning singing—the same song—by Jerry Vale—one of the many Sinatra crooner types of that era. It made my mother nuts. She couldnt figure it. Goodj was the happy type. But how could a woman who did nothing and went nowhere be happy—to wake up singing every morning? My mother said: They have all that money they refuse to spend, they live like paupers but she is always singing! I said: Ma—its her money—to do with what she likes and what she likes is to save and save some more and encourage the magic of compound interest do its thing. One day it will all be yours. I can wait. I love my aunt. They did go out one time. They went to the Town Casino to see a show. The Town Casino was a Buffalo night club that catered to the big stars when they played the city—including Jimmy Durante—my aunts favorite and my mother was able to persuade her to attend the show. Off they went, the four of them, to see Jimmy Durante, there was dinner and it was a great show and my aunt had a marvelous time. Then the bill arrived. The Town Casino was the top club in Buffalo that attracted the top stars, the chef was first rate and all this was reflected in the bill. My aunt looks at the bill, a moment of silence occurs while the shock registers— and she starts screaming. The apartment. How to describe this place. It was a box, a small box in a building of boxes— where they had lived for 30 years, practicing astounding habits of thrift and now they were pushing 90 with a bit of dementia beginning to creep in and the pad was in a deteriorating state, the squalid or encrusted state, leaking gloom and a dismal pervading angst like a blanket. But I was always happy to see them and reminded once again how fond of them I was and had always been. Yes they were hard core saver types but not when it came to me or my family. I produced the cannolis and my aunt squealed with delight and pounced upon these goodies and quickly devoured not one but two. She still had her appetite. Next came the laying of money on the beloved nephew—a ritual that went back to earliest childhood—beginning with $1 that gradually, according to the laws of inflation, had worked its way up to 5, then 20 and presently stood at 100. Now that I was 70 and liable at any moment to drop dead myself— it was too bad we couldnt tack another 2— or even 3—zeros onto this one. We spoke of this and that—my teaching job, life in Los Angeles, going on 40 years and beginning to suck big time— and the grandchildren, the children of my son that I had never seen. Why? Because my son had a low opinion of Dad he preferred not to revise and this was a consequence. It was ok with me. I had a life that didnt require the love of a son to complete itself. But here in the apartment I could see the latest pictures of the kids—getting bigger as kids tend to do. Goodj said: Claire takes those kids everywhere. I said: thats her job. She is the grandmother—the perfect relationship. Meanwhile I awaited an opening, to insert the subject of money, and of it what would happen once they were gone—in the not too distant future. The opening failed to occur-but now from out of the blue Frank says: Im giving everything to the grandkids—but not to David. David gets nothing. I knew the answer to this question but I said it anyway: Why does David get nothing? Because he never invited you to his wedding. That was always an issue—with them and my parents. I said: in that case you must create a trust. Claire can help you with it. Shes a paralegal. Yes—those were my words, spoken with an enormous lack of enthusiasm. But I couldnt argue the point. I was 70, my life was behind me and the grandkids, not that they needed it, were the logical heirs. Either way, if that was their preference it neatly solved the inheritance issue that had been causing me many an ambiguous moment. I was out of the picture. The visit ended. I said my goodbyes— embraced my aunt--maybe for the last time— which it was—and Frank walked me outside to his car. He opened the trunk and poked around for something—a sleeve of golf balls that he handed over. He said: take these. I cant play anymore. I said: Thanks uncle Frank. That was the last visit. 3 months later— in Jan 2009 Goodj died. She fell and broke a hip and suffered a heart attack in the hospital. Claire had her cremated. There was no service because for a service you needs friends and they had none—only neighbors. Frank was in a bad way. He seemed unable to grasp the fact of her death. She was gone and where she had gone he didnt know or when she would return. She would return but when? The idea of her death was a thought he was incapable of thinking. I called from time to time and all he could say was: its a real mess. Probate 3 months later. Goodj died in February and now it was Franks turn. I got a call from Claire—a message on the machine. Frank died yesterday. That was the message along with some details—another heart attack, a short spell in the hospital but the will to live was gone, he went into a coma and never came out. That night I sat down to write a letter—a letter to Claire—similar to the one written following the death of my mother. The difference: was: my mother left $15,000. How much Frank and Goodj had salted away I didnt know but a conservative guess would have been half a million. Lets not forget Einstein and something called the rule of 72 that invites you to divide into this number the annual rate or return you are getting on your stash and the number to result is the time required to double the stash. Also you may recall a period in the 80’s—the Regan years—when the interest rate was 18%. Do the math. I scribbled away at the letter—trying to find the tone. Already in my mind I had conceded the money to her and very little to be done about it except to remind her of the role I played for 70 years—the beloved nephew and surrogate son and the close relationship of them both to my mother. I wasnt making a pitch for the entire estate. I left that one hanging. In my mind I would have been happy with a modest cut—say 30%. I would be thrilled. That was the tone—non-threatening because I had nothing to back it up with. Maybe she would have a weak moment. That was my hope—not much of a hope. The next day. I was still at work on the letter and the phone rings—Claire. She says: did you get my message? I got it. You have to come up and help me clean out this apt. Pause. Now she said: do you know anything about a will? Major pause—say what? I said: its a good question. I heard something about a will years ago— something my mother might have said-- but I dont recall details. Try to remember! I cant remember. It was years ago. This was interesting—maybe more than interesting. Maybe unbelievably fantastic, awesome and amazing. She had done nothing about the money and all my paranoia and evil thoughts were without merit and everything was up for grabs. I came to life. I was euphoric. She said: Do you know what happens if he died intestate? Youre out of the picture. You arent related to him. You are related to Goodj who predeceased him so its Franks estate that enters probate. The estate enters probate, there is an heir search—on Franks side—and if no heirs are found you still dont get the money. It goes to the state. Pause. I let this one—all that money going to some great niece or—even worse— the state of California-sink in. I said: That isnt going to happen. What do you mean? I dont know what I meant but I meant something. She said: I am going over today to start sorting things out. Maybe something will turn up. I said: If there is a will its in that apartment. I thought the situation over. The solution was obvious: the forging of a will. How hard could it be? I had a notion—that white collar crime offered particular advantages for the criminal mind—the superior criminal mind—that I happened to possess—a legacy from my father. Here were all these clerks over at superior court, fresh out of law school and still somewhat wet behind the ears being hammered daily with piles of documents that found their way to their desks and buried among them was a will, forged by a brilliant criminal mind, cunning, devious and above all, blessed with a superb gift for detail. I was already putting a crew together—my friend Amy, Japanese graphic designer who would be perfect for the forging of signatures or other documents required and, not to forget, the witness angle-- two friends in Palo Alto who would be happy to participate in the scam for $25,000. I went to bed but couldnt sleep. My mind was in turmoil. I wanted that money! The next day I had breakfast at the Farmers Market and then it was over to the Apple store in the mall to check on my stocks and email and here was one from Claire: Good news. I found a will. And your mothers name is on it. The will I flew up. I flew to Oakland and took Bart to San Leandro and hoofed it to the apt. I rang the managers bell who came down with the key. I entered the apt and there on the kitchen table were the wills, one for each of them but both the same, written in 1963, naming my mother as beneficiary. Its a funny feeling, to hold in your hand two pieces of paper worth half a million dollars. The exact amount was still not known. Claire had frozen the accounts following Franks death—6 banks with 7 accounts. She had statements on some but wasn’t privy to all. The figure she arrived at was $400,00 plus. But that seemed low. Either way—it wasnt chopped liver. Here also the keys to the car parked downstairs in one of the stalls, covered with dust and a dying battery but I got it started and drove to the car wash and from there to Lafayette to meet with a lawyer. Lafayette is a village type community north of Berkeley on the other side of the Caldecott tunnel. Its quiet, pleasant, quaint—non-aggravating. I had a cousin living there whose son-in-law knew this lawyer—a probate type. It was a partnership operating out of an office suite in a small industrial park, a modest operation but—it was probate. How hard could it be? I wasnt OJ Simpson obliged to hire some high-priced bullshit artist of the Johnny Cochran type to spring me from a double homicide rap. I met the lawyer—Mark—mid or late thirties—a mild mannered type. I filled him in on the situation while he scribbled notes on a pad and I handed over the wills. He examined the wills and laid some bad news on me. He said: Your mother is sole beneficiary but she is deceased. Also she is the sister of your aunt, unrelated to your uncle. It wouldnt be an issue if your uncle had predeceased your aunt.Then it would be her will to enter probate and you, as heir to your mother would have a claim. But your aunt predeceased your uncle and that changes things. It gives precedence to his side of the family. The lawyer: normally—at least this is the idea when the beneficiary predeceases the testator, a codicil is drawn up that attaches to the existing will and, as heir to the beneficiary—yourself—inserts in place of your mother. That solves the problem. That didnt happen here. Yeah—too bad about that one. Mark continued: My guess is you would qualify as trustee for the estate and as such receive a fee—in this case if the estate as you say is in the neighborhood of $400,000, would amount to $13,000 or so—plus expenses. I said: thats a long way from $400,000. He gave me a look: how true. He said: its an unusual situation that doesnt occur too often. Its called anti- lapse. We take it in law school but that was 20 years ago and the details escape me. I said: Im going back to Los Angeles. I must rethink this thing. There is a book—How to Probate an Estate in California—a Nolo legal publication. He scribbled the title on some notepaper and handed it over. When you get back to Los Angeles you might want to check it out. Back to the apartment. The apt was small but they lived there 35 years and there was stuff, stuff, stuff. How Claire had managed to find the wills lurking amidst the clutter was a miracle. Now it was my job to clear everything out, the possessions of a lifetime of value to no one but themselves. Normally I would have hired a van and carted it all over to Goodwill or the Salvation Army but I didnt have time for that one now. I was armed with a supply of giant trash bags and began in the bedroom. In went the shoes and slippers and socks and stockings and nighties and slips and bras and pants and panties and shirts and t- shirts and sweaters and hankies and goodj's woolen cap collection Frank could have opened a store selling the used eyeglass case and for Goodj it was the woolen cap. I grabbed a handful of Franks drawers and felt an object buried within—a wallet. I opened the wallet to find a stash of twenties and started counting--100, 200, 300 and now there were fifties--400, 500, 600, 700. That was it. Its funny—you stumble unexpectedly upon $700 and are disappointed there isnt more. Into the bathroom—the toothpaste and dental floss, hairbrush, toothbrush, eyeliner brush, tweezers, fingernail clippers, eyebrow pencil and lipsticks and after shave and bars of hand soap and bath towels and wash towels and etc,etc. Now for the kitchen where you wre not going to find All-Clad or Le Creuset or the Japanese chefs knife. Its all the odds and ends-useless even for Goodwill—the can openers and potholders and boxes of toothpicks and matches and refrigerator magnets and the little wire twisties for tying plastic bags, etc. I finished up with more odds and ends—a money clip, two zippo cigarette lighters, four umbrellas, an ashtray that weighed four pounds embossed with a log—Tech High circa 1953 when yours truly was enrolled in something called foundry class thrashing with these giant castings and this ashtray was the result. I spent 2 hours filling 18 trash bags worth of belongings and rolled them 4 at a time in a shopping cart out of the apt and down the hall to the elevator and out the building around to the back and over to the dumpster. I tossed it all. I left some kitchen stuff—pots and pans and dishes and tableware-- and furniture—the TV and Franks Barcalounger, the bed, dresser, mirrors and so forth—also some clothes— jackets and coats, the golf clubs. And with me I took: Franks swiss army knife, an electric drill, Norelco shaver and two boxes of photos including one of them in their prime, circa 1943 with Frank in uniform—home on leave. Here was a medal—the Bronze Star—not an award given out lightly. Frank was a hero. The last trash bag tossed I rang the manager—Maggie. I gave her $100 and said: Ive left a bunch of stuff for Goodwill. You can give it to them or sell it to the neighbors. Now I am gone. She said: his last days were so sad. He just seemed lost. I called Claire, left a message and drove back to LA. Its a five hour drive and I dont mind saying the entire five hours were spent thinking one thought. The will posed 2 possibilities: it was either seriously flawed—as Mark the lawyer seemed to think—that called for me to resurrect the forgery scheme—or some other solution was out there awaiting my attention. Either way—there was a solution. I was convinced of this and refused to consider alternatives. I wanted that money! Back in Los Angeles I called Gene Weisberg, friend of a friend, a lawyer and I said: I have this will that requires a second opinion. I dont like the first opinion. Gene gave me a name, Jerry Smith, a probate type in Marina Del Rey. I called Jerry Smith to make an appointment and then it was downtown to the library to check out a copy of Nolos How To Probate a Will In California. At home I sat down to read. The book is divided into sections beginning with an intro that is followed by a description of the probate process and from there its on to heirs and beneficiaries where I came across something called Right of Representation, also known as per stirpes and defined as: the right of an heir of a deceased beneficiary to claim the estate the deceased beneficiary would have claimed if alive at the time of the decedents death. An example followed: “Lets assume John makes a bequest to his brother Tommy but Tommy predeceases John. Tommy has 3 children who are not mentioned in the will. However, unless the will states otherwise—i.e. to name some other beneficiary in the event of Tommy’s death— the children take the bequest by right of representation.” Yeah—but Tommy was Johns brother—a relative. My mother was Franks sister-in- law—a non-relative. Now this passage occurs: If the gift is made to a relative of the deceased spouse of the decedent the property passes to the heir of the beneficiary by Right of Representation I read this one again. I read it 3 times. I replaced “gift " with $400,000, the relative was my mother, related to the deceased spouse, my aunt, of the decedent, Frank, and the heir to receive the money was Jack. Correct? Who knows. I was a teacher not a lawyer, my ability to interpret a legal concept was zero and it was possible I had the whole thing backwards. Now followed a chart—something called anti-lapse and how it works. Wait a minute. Anti-lapse? That rang a bell. Wasnt that a word that popped up during my meet with Mark in Lafayette? I examined this chart—a nest of boxes with arrows pointing to other boxes that you followed according to the answer given, yes or no, in the preceding box. You start with the box at the top and in this box a statement: The beneficiary fails to survive the testator. Yes—that was my mother Follow the yes arrow to this box—a question: Does the will state who should receive the property of the deceased beneficiary? The answer is no which directs me to a box with another question: Was the deceased beneficiary a relative of the decedent or the decedents deceased spouse? Yes!!! Now its on to the last box, box #4, my all time favorite box, that says: The property passes to the children of the deceased beneficiary by right of representation. That was the story—the anti-lapse story. But what did it mean? Did it mean I get the money? And if that was true why did Mark the lawyer from Lafayette fail to comprehend? I left his office and wanted to put a bullet through my head. On to Jerry Smith out in Marina Del Rey, billing at the rate of $330/hr. Jerry was early fifties, the beefy type, dressed in shorts, polo shirt and running shoes—the casual look. In LA we are casual. We attend funerals in jogging sweats. Into a conference room and I deposit both wills on the table and say: Please dont tell me these are useless documents. He briefly studies the wills and says: They look ok—for something written 45 years ago. What about some other will that may be out there that post dates this one? There are no other wills. I knew this for a fact. My aunt called the shots in that family and especially the financial shots and Frank was obliged to go along. It was either go along or face the consequences which could be severe. In Franks case the consequences were: no sex. My aunt was the sweetest woman in the world but she was Sicilian and there was a line you crossed at your peril. There is no way another will could have been written that had anyones name on it but my mother. I said: what about the fact my mother is not related to my uncle. The lawyer in Lafayette says its a problem. Jerry considered this one. I said: can I show you something? Sure. I had a copy of the anti-lapse chart from Nolo-with relevant boxes highlighted, arrows redrawn in red marker and labels scribbled in to identify my mother, aunt and uncle. Jerry studies the chart and gives me what I would call a narrow look. Is this California law? Yes: Nolos How To Probate an Estate In California The narrow look continues and now he says: Good for you Jack. Those were his words. Have I interpreted this correctly? He stands and excuses himself. I will be right back I didnt say: dont take too long. Jerry was starting to get a little fired up which I took to be a good sign He returned with a law book and copy of a section that he handed over. I read but it was legalese and I failed to understand. Jerry said: its the statute from which Nolo produced the chart. I said: my question is: why didnt this guy Mark up in Lafayette mention any of this? I left his office and wanted to put a bullet through my head. Because, Jerry said, its a situation that rarely occurs and yes its covered in law school which is the last time it was brought to my attention as well—25 years ago. You know more about it than I do. He said: this is the quick and dirty solution. I will do some research—if its ok with you—and see if there are any precedents. Go ahead. But what about a lawyer? What about you? No—the expenses would be huge. The will probates in Alameda county and you will be much better served with a lawyer from the area. I will give you a guy to call. He is the best. I left Jerrys office. This was interesting. I had seen two lawyers, billing their services at an extraordinary rate yet it took me, Jack, the writer/English major to bring to their attention something called the anti-lapse statute, California version, that, applied to my uncles will, seemed to interpret the will in a particular way, a favorable way, big time, for yours truly I called James Haverkamp--lawyer #3. In one week I had established contact with 3 lawyers, to exceed the 2 encountered the previous 70 years of my life. I spoke to James Haverkamp who said he would be happy to meet with me and a date was set for the following week. Meanwhile my spirits had improved. I hadnt lived to the age of 70 without learning a few things and at the top of the list was: nothing is certain. And twice as uncertain when the issue is money. Its also called: not to count your chickens. Remember Great Expectations? But the urge to dwell upon this one--the sudden prospect of considerable wealth and to speculate on the effect lifestyle-wise was powerful. What would I do with the money? A good question. Los Angeles was my home—where I had lived 40 years. But it was a home I had no affection for. When I moved to New York in the sixties—and stepped off the bus at the East Side Terminal—to look up at that fabulous skyline and here was this swarm of New Yorkers scurrying by in an aroused state—and it took 9 seconds for it all to register and I said: this is for me. Now—after 40 years in Los Angeles—I was still waiting to speak those words. From time to time I toyed with the notion of a return to Buffalo where I still had friends and spent a couple weeks each summer. Buffalo had two things going for it: it was 1) fun and 2) cheap. There were some great apt buildings with some fabulous pads within—the Dakota type pads like on Central Park West in New York. That was for me. But what about those winters. Buffalo had a reputation for hideous winters and the reputation was correct. You dont forget weather like that. The solution was obvious—to keep the pad in LA and split my time between the two cities. But money was the issue and I could never quite swing it. Now that was about to change—maybe. Lawyer #3 Back to the Bay Area. I spent the night at a motel in Alameda and met with James Haverkamp the following AM. He was out by the airport—another office park featuring a reception area of the cool type, designed to soothe and reassure and convey the message that: here you are covered. But I was 70, as I say, an age where you believe nothing until it happens. I sat in reception and out comes James— tall, early 5o’s, the handsome type and one word and one word only to describe: professional. He wore slacks and to my well trained eye for such things—a custom shirt and Allen Edmonds shoes. Allen Edmonds shoes, unless you happen to score for one at a sale start at $300. We shook hands and into a conference room. I hand over the will and give a brief rundown of the last weeks of my life— adventures with lawyers—and the phenomena of anti lapse—California version. He looked the will over. Who were these people—Mr and Mrs Shelton— the witnesses? I dont know. There is something called a self-proving will—in which the witness or witnesses swear under penalty of perjury that the person executing the will is who he or she claims to be and that this is their signature. In your uncles will the phrase “under penalty of perjury” doesnt occur. Whoever drew up the will failed to include this phrase. Why? I have no idea. It was an oversight. But its an issue—something the court would want to clarify—either by contacting the witnesses—if they are still alive—or to present some other samples of your uncles handwriting that can be authenticated. You say your ex-wife assisted them in the payment of bills. Would she be willing to sign an affidavit to that effect—that the signature on the will is the same signature he signed in her presence? Im sure she would. What about your uncles family—siblings? I said: I suppose there were siblings but Frank never spoke of his family. I think he was estranged from his father. He married my aunt and her family become his family. James: probate requires an heir search. In this case, that would be applied to your uncles side of the family. Whoever turns up must be informed of the estate, the will and what it provides for and decide if they want to get involved—to contest the estate. By this time I had figured something out— that probate work for lawyers fell into two categories—preferred, and to be avoided. They were paid not according to the usual rate of $350/hr and up but instead received a percentage of the estate and as estates went anything under a million was considered small potatoes. James was showing a polite interest in my problem but we were a long way from enthusiasm. But I liked the guy immediately and my instincts told me that with him I would be in good hands. I said: I need a lawyer and Jerry Smith spoke highly of you. Also you are the third lawyer I have seen in 12 days and if you would take the case I would be spared the ordeal of meeting with a fourth. That drew a laugh and he said. Maybe you read in Nolo that probate is a leisurely process. It can be done in six months but in my 25 years of practice this has never happened. The norm is a year. He said: This Friday I leave for a two week vacation—to Wisconsin. My brother and I have been talking about a fishing trip for 10 years and its now or never. I could lodge the will before I leave but it would make my life a whole lot easier to do that when I return from my trip. Fine. I can wait. I had a question about the car. The car was a '92 Honda with 65,000 miles in perfect condition. Frank took good care of his cars. I could get $5000 easy. James said: The car is part of the estate. You must wait until probate clears and the estate is dissolved and the court releases the assets for distribution. He made a copy of the will, we shook hands and I made to leave and he said: not that door. You might get a bill. You never know when you put yourself in the hands of another to perform a service what kind of service to expect but a sense of humor is a good sign. Back in LA I had nothing to do but wait. Patience is a virtue I dont have. My father was the worlds most impatient human being and I tend to imitate him in this regard. Plus I was 70. The end was in sight. It could happen at any time. It was possible that, following a lifetime of labor I could suddenly hit the jackpot only to be told I had 3 months to live. That would be perfect. Meanwhile I made a vow of silence—to say nothing of any of this to my friends, not a word, until this adventure was over, decided in my favor and the money was in the bank. Then I would host a dinner in a cool restaurant—where an important announcement was to be made. I would stand and give them a cat who ate the canary type look and deliver the announcement: I am rich. That was the vow of silence. It lasted a week. probate. Probate works like this. There are 3 filings and two hearings and in between any number of administrative and other chores to be brought to your scrupulous attention and if your attention proves less than scrupulous and one of the chores goes unattended—or unnoticed—very easy to do—its tough titty. Everything is re- deposited into your lap and another 6 weeks goes into the toilet. Probate is technical, the paperwork is staggering and its the attention to detail that prevails over all else. Its legal terrain to be navigated with great caution and expertise. It can be done, as Nolo suggests, minus the services of a lawyer— but you are asking for trouble. You need your head examined. Filing the petition. The petition is a request for the court to appoint an administrator (Jack) to the estate. The petition lists any and all persons turned up via the heir search— known as heirs-at-law. These people are then notified of the filing. The heir search is a key element of the process that provides a glimpse of what lies ahead--the good or not so good. This was my fear—not that some other will existed— but some low life niece/nephew lurking about out there would hire some low life lawyer to contest the proceedings and in this way draw things out for 2 or 3 years with myself lurching steadily closer to assisted living. How is an heir search performed? By hiring an heir search person—in this case senor Nushi--thorough and reasonable— according to James Haverkamp at $600 a sweep. Seven names turned up—two nephews, a niece and four great niece/nephews--all living in Buffalo. The petition was filed 4 august and the hearing scheduled for 18 Sept. Meanwhile a bill arrived from Jerry Smith to the tune of $693.00. The breakdown was: 1.0 hours for the meeting in the office equals $330.00; 0.60 hours for a telephone call to James Haverkamp and telephone call to Jack Spiegelman equals $198.00 0.50 hours for receipt and review of email from Haverkamp: email to client and review of Witkin (anti-lapse case with a dog as beneficiary) equals $165.00. Also there were 2 other phone calls and receipt/review of emails to myself totaling 0.40 hours which he threw in gratis. I sat down and wrote a check to Jerry Smith thanking him for his services. Its only money. Time passed—a week, then two, then four. There was no word from Buffalo. Then there was word. It was 16 Sept, 2 days to the hearing and a call from James Haverkamp. James: I have heard from Edward Walczak, fiancé to Martha Dix, one of the great nieces. He called this morning. He wants to know why you—a non relative of Frank Morrison, qualify as beneficiary and not his fiancé. My reply was to brief him on section 263 from Witkins summary of California law—the anti-lapse statue that provides for this discrepancy. I said: now what? James: this isnt something we want to hear but we have heard it and must leave it for these people to do what they will. It changes nothing, I am confident of our case and that you will be named administrator for the estate. I will write this guy Walczak a letter with a copy of the statute. That was that. 18 Sept. The hearing occurred and there were no surprises. The will stood and I was named administrator to the estate. Something called a request for special notice was filed by the Dix woman that required myself as trustee for the estate to keep her posted of all proceedings to occur along the way—accounts of inventory, filings, petitions, etc. She did not have a lawyer—yet. It meant the same thing it meant before: a pain in the ass and whatever it promised for yours truly down the road was a question that would be answered at that time. But for now I was in the drivers seat. The size of the estate was still a question mark. Claire had frozen the accounts following Franks death and turned the account numbers over to James Haverkamp but she wasnt privy to all the statements. The figure we were contemplating at this point was $400,000 plus but that seemed low. There were six banks with seven accounts. My first call was upon Bank of the West in Koreatown three blocks from the house. I met with Mary Yoon, produced my drivers license and passport, copies of death certificates of Goodj and Frank, letter of administration, a phone call was made to the legal dept for approval and 20 minutes later $101,099.76 had been transferred into a new account—the estate of Frank Morrison, John Spiegelman administrator. Mary Yoon said: Now Mr Spiegelman you must think carefully about this money and what you plan to do with it. I said: I have thought carefully about it. I am going to spend it. On to bank #2--US bank. Here the sum was $100,145.00 On to Pacific National. Pacific National was headquartered in San Francisco and there were no branches in Southern California. I was obliged to call the bank, put through to a guy named Tony who said: that account has been closed. Pause. I asked by who. Tony said: that information is confidential. I need proof of ID. So I faxed everything over to Tony and called the next day but he was in a meeting. I left a message that he failed to return. I called the next day and it was more of the same: another meeting and another non-returned phone call. Something was going on but what? Maybe the money from that account had been transferred to some other account—the checking account. I could have called Claire but I set it aside for the moment and moved on to account #4--Wachovia. Here there were no problems and another $104,549 added to the pot. Next: Citi for $100,703 followed by Chase— a two bagger: the CD plus checking equals $139,878. The pot stood at: $546.543 Nice! More thoughts about the pad in Buffalo, furniture for the pad, a cool ride. I liked that Beamer--the 335i--sporty. I got a call from James. Whats going on with Pacific National? I explained: Tony was a retard. Ill give a call. 3 days later. James: I cant reach this guy either. I want to have a 3 way conversation with the bank. Can you stay on the line for a bit. He called the bank, got reception, identified himself, myself, the problem we both shared, the non-return of phone calls and mentioned the word ”subpoena”. Something about the word “subpoena” produced a tonic effect and we were transferred to Devon over at the Oakland branch. Devon: we were getting statements back with no forwarding address and following a waiting period the account was escheated to the state. James: I dont understand how this happened but we can discuss that later. For now I want that account returned and reopened in the name of the Estate of Frank Morrison with my client, John Spiegelman as administrator. You should have all the documentation you need. I have it. Also I presume the interest on this money has continued to accrue. Yes the interest is there. James asked the balance. Devon: the balance as of today is $101,287.67 Devon rang off and I said: thats a nice surprise. Yeah—its called a pig in a poke. The writer writes and he does so in the hope that one day all this sparkling prose will result in publication—the cultivation of an audience. That is the idea. But for this to occur you must find an agent—someone to represent your interests. I never found the agent. But now I had James the lawyer—tough and savvy with a superb command of the ins and outs of probate and it was all in the service of yours truly. I liked it. Back in LA time passed. Now I had a thought. Probate took forever but I was 70 and didnt have forever. I had money of my own, a few bucks—not a fortune. Probate wasnt a slam dunk but I liked my chances and with this in mind I could afford to start living it up a bit—not to overdo it but treat myself to a few goodies. So I ordered 3 art books on Amazon and bought a cool peacoat from Banana Republic and over at Sur Le Table a Japanese chefs knife with the partially serrated edge—very cool. I booked a flight to Buffalo. A woman who belonged to my investment group said: now that you have money you must fly first class. Once you do that you can never go back to coach.Check out Air Tran. I checked out Air Tran running a business class special for an extra $300 round trip. My friend was right. Its like night and day. Buffalo I stayed at Holiday Inn. It was October and beautiful. The leaves were turning and it was cold but not too bad. And if it got too bad I had my pea coat. My first call was to Hunt Real Estate where I met with Judy LoTempio, friend of a friend, who said: what is your idea of perfect? Me: the Dakota in New York. Buffalo at one time was known as The Queen City of the Lakes. It served as a terminal for the shipping from the Midwest carrying grain, meat and automobiles passing through the city and on to the Atlantic via the Erie Canal. It was a blue collar town. There were 3 mills that fabricated steel for Detroit. It was the home of Trico that produced windshield wipers for the cars made from the steel. There was money and some fabulous houses and apartment buildings. That was then. Now the mills were gone and Trico, all 700,000 square feet had been rehabbed into loft space for yuppies. The grain elevators remained in place alongside the canal in a derelict state like some gigantic movie set. This was Buffalo—a city in decline. But for someone like me— retired with money in the bank—maybe—there were opportunities. Judy took me to 800 West Ferry—in the old days the best address in Buffalo and still none too shabby. It was a building in the neo-gothic or Robber Baron style-- 12 floors with some with some townhouse type pads at the top. We took the elevator to 9, the elevator doors open and you are in the apt. Judy gave me a look: will this do? The pad was huge—2000 sq feet with views south towards downtown and west to the river. You could see the mist from the Falls 12 miles away. All the ingredients were there--a living room, dining room, study, kitchen and pantry for the kitchen, two wood burning fireplaces. The master bedroom was half the size of my apt in Los Angeles. The price was 280K. This apt in Los Angeles would go for a million two. I said: I feel like Donald Trump in this pad. I had lunch with a friend. He spoke of his son—Tristan—a lawyer. He said: Tristan got interested in your case and mentioned it to one of his colleagues—a probate guy—and guess what? I said: what? According to the guy if your Uncle died in Buffalo—you dont get the money. It seems that New York takes the opposite view of California, anti-lapse wise, so that a deceased beneficiary unrelated to the testator creates a roadblock and everything grinds to a halt. The heirs-at- law of the deceased beneficiary have no claim to the estate. Everything shifts to the testators side of the family. That must be when the Jaskowiak woman and her boyfriend decided to get involved. They talked to some lawyer who made the assumption the California statute was in agreement with the New York statute on this point and advised them accordingly. I let this one sink in. I said: its called dodging a bullet. Back to Los Angeles. Time passed. I did some painting. I had a show coming up—a group show I had no desire to participate in for a good reason—the slim to none chance of selling work. It was a small neighborhood gallery in NoHo—North Hollywood—not to be confused with SoHo—in New York City. But the owners were friends and I was obliged to lend my presence. The show came and went and I sold nothing. Time passed. Time passed slowly. The watched pot doesnt boil. James was busy with another filing—an inventory of the assets of the estate. That revived more thoughts of the Dix woman and her boyfriend. She and the boyfriend knew an estate existed but that was all they knew. The size and contents of the estate were a question mark. Now that question would be answered. What would happen when this one—the size of the estate—at 647K and counting—was brought to their attention. They would be gibbering like monkeys. But of this, as James was in the habit of saying, there was nothing to be done. Time would tell. The hospital bill There were creditors to pay off--$126 to Visa, a cable bill and 860 to the hospital for franks last visit the insurance failed to cover. This bill was 7 months old ands they had not been heard from since. James mailed off a letter to remind them of the money, that the hearing to dissolve the estate was drawing near and all creditors were to be paid off at this time, etc. We waited and there was no reply. Fine— another $9800 I could put to much better use. Meanwhile James had been doing some research and turned up a case much more complicated than my own involving three families and sister-in-laws and brother- in-laws and stepsons ect and eventually resolved by invoking the California anti-lapse statute. That gave me a boost. Xmas Think about money for a minute. What is the purpose of money? The idea to spend it—and in a particular way—to derive satisfaction. To buy life insurance, to finance some root canal, to enter your son into rehab, ect, etc—these are expensive but non-satisfying. Now Christmas was upon us and I decided to give my friends daughter $5000. I did it because I loved her and she was a girl—like her mother—who knew how to have fun. She was a recent UC Berkeley grad on her way to Buenos Aires—to study Spanish and do some teaching. I knew that in her hands the money would be well spent. So we all gathered at the house for the festivities and I took her aside and into the bedroom. I said: where is your purse? Why? I gave her the envelope. Put this in your purse. Dont open it until you get back to Berkeley. And dont say anything to anyone—ok? She gave me a sweet look. She said: I love you Jack Marta Time passed. In Los Angeles I had a routine that began with breakfast at the Farmers market. I had coffee and read the Times and, if the mood was upon me, did some writing. My preferred spot was the west patio featuring Tonys Pizza and McGees Peanut Butter—with the giant peanut butter machine and a picture—circa 1953—of President Eisenhower standing next to the machine smacking his chops over a peanut butter sample. I was friendly with Marta who worked the stall, a Latina, mother of 3 and sweetest of the sweet. She was fond of me because I saved for her the grocery coupons from the Sunday Times and also showed her how to open a combination lock—two turns left, one turn right, left to the number and pull. Now I had an idea. I said: darling I need a favor. Last year my uncle died…. Jack! Im so sorry! Its OK—he was 90 I briefly described the situation—the estate he left, rather large, that I stood a decent chance of inheriting, etc, but it wasnt a slam dunk and just to be on the safe side a little praying wouldnt hurt. Thats where she, Marta, came in. I couldnt do it because I was me and the request would fall on deaf ears but she was Marta, the Latina, mother of 3 and heaven bound, hands down, no questions asked. That was the pitch. I said: I dont need the prayer every night. Once a week is plenty. Throw it in with the other prayers on Sunday. She gave me the sweet look Jack I would be happy to pray for you. March The last filing—the petition to dissolve the estate and distribute assets—all to Jack and no other. The hearing was set for 29 April. James Haverkamp said a year. He was short by 6 days. There was no word from the Dix woman. It was my thought that, should her and the boyfriend decided to take action they would not wait until the last minute— correct? But who knew. The suspense was killing me! I took a trip. I needed a distraction from the ordeal of probate and booked a flight to Florida. I had friends from Buffalo who spent the winter in Florida where they did the same things they did in Buffalo—to eat, golf and play cards. It was the eating that prevailed. I stayed at the Crown Regency in West Palm Beach. Been to West Palm Beach lately? Its like living on the moon. It makes Los Angeles look homey. I was there ten days and the pedestrians who appeared on the sidewalk could be counted on the fingers of one hand. Its condos, condos, condos and malls in between the condos. The road is highway 95. It isnt a freeway. Its bigger than the freeway. Its 12 lanes and the cars are SUVs, a new model, the steroid model, and they are all bearing down on my ass at 95 on the 95 and my thought was: I am going to die in my car in this motherfucking city and never get to spend that money! April 29 Over to the Farmers Market for Breakfast and I paid a call on Jim at Huntington Meats. Jim was a Chicago guy, similar to a Buffalo guy—and knew the story—the saga of probate. Jim: whats going on? Today is the day. The lawyer said a year. He was off by six days. I am happy for you. Dont go crazy! I knew what he meant. But I was 70 not 40 or even 50. Then it would have been a problem. I would be dead in two years. I returned to the house. On the machine a message from James: You can sell the car. |
frank and "goodj"
800 west ferry