Philanthropist

by Larry Hill

  “I’m just up for the day – I’ve got to prepare for a couple of depositions. Meet my colleagues.” The two men, both more than six foot two, stood.

  “This is my stockbroker, Ernesto Contreras.” Hands were shaken all around.

  “Good to meet you, Ernie. Who do you work for? One of the bigs?”

  The two hadn’t role-played anything to do with brokerages and Contreras was no expert on the field. In fact, the only name he could come up with was one from a TV commercial that he remembered fondly. “EF Hutton.” Jennifer cringed.

  “I thought they were long gone,” Jason responded. “Didn’t they get taken up by Citigroup and then became part of Smith Barney and then Morgan Stanley?”

  “You’re right. I’m with Morgan Stanley, but there are still a few of us from the old Hutton days that can’t give up the name.”

  “Can’t believe that the Morgan Stanley guys would be very happy you advertising yourself as a part of a failed company like EFH.”

  “Yeah, true. I got to get over that.”

  “Got any hot tips, Ernie?”

  “Come on, Jason, you know he can‘t do that. You’re not a client.” Jen was barely able to hide her anger.

  “No, no hot tips. I’m an index fund guy.”

  “You can’t make any money selling index funds. No commissions there.”

  “Ernesto and I have to leave. Your Dad was having a pretty good day and I want to see if there’s been any more progress. Shall I tell him you might come over?”

  “No, don’t mention that I’m here. He might get upset. And we sure don’t want to upset my father, do we?”

  Ernesto and Jennifer headed to the bar to pay the bill. Jason called his stepmother back out of the others’ earshot. “Do you always hold hands with your stockbroker, Jen?”

  Fred had been home a bit more than a month. A hospital bed had been rented and a staff of care-givers hired. The former had all the electronic answers to modern ergonomics and the latter were all from the Philippine Islands. A physical therapist made twice weekly visits. An occupational therapist came once as did a speech therapist. Visiting RNs came every other day, although they did little more than check the pulse, monitor the blood pressure and examine the now-healed incisions on the head and the chest. A wheel chair had been waiting for him on his arrival but he had not spent a single second on it. He did use his 4-wheeled walker. His in-hospital therapy had been successful; he and his family prided themselves on his ability to get to the bathroom, the dining room and the TV room, where he continued to watch intently his sitcoms and cop shows. He had become a walking, talking TV Guide. He watched far more programming than he did when he was CEO of KLAT. “Hurry up,” he’d say as he finished dinner. “CSI is about to start. It’s a new one.”

  One afternoon, in his second week at home, the doorbell rang at a time when no professional was expected. Jen was fairly certain that it wasn’t one of his friends – none, except life-long alter ego Art Schofield, had visited since the episode(s), either at the hospital or at home. She was not expecting anything from FedEx or UPS.

  Upon opening the front door, she saw two unknown people, a very tall African-American male and a very short Asian female. Both were dressed as if they were going to church in the 50s. “Hello, said the woman and she and the man offered their photo IDs. “I am Katherine Ng, assistant District Attorney and this is my aide, Mr. Carson. We are here to interview Mr. Frederick Klein. Are you related to him? His daughter perhaps?”

  “I am Jennifer Klein, his wife, thank you.” The tone of the thank you made it clear that she was not happy with Ms. Ng’s guess.

  “My apologies, Ms. Klein. You look so young. May we come in?” Seeing no immediate reasons not to let them enter, she motioned them into the living room where they were seated on the antique chenille-covered loveseat that Jennifer had recently purchased at an estate sale.

  “I have spoken to Mr. Klein’s attorney, Mr. Greenberg and he told me that it would be OK to come over and interview your husband without him – Mr. Greenberg, that is – being here. Our only purpose is to determine whether he would be capable of partaking in a trial, or whether legal proceedings should be placed on hold while he recovers from his surgery. There will be no fact finding in terms of his recollections of the automobile accident. Mr. Carson is trained in psychology; he will be asking most of the questions.”

  “In all due respect Ms. Ng, I’d prefer to hear that this is OK from Mr. Greenberg himself.” Jennifer, miffed, went to the kitchen and called the office. To her surprise, he was not only in the office, but available to take her call. She explained the situation.

  “Don’t let them see him until I get over! I did not tell that little twerp that she could do that without somebody being there. I did say that it didn’t have to be me – just someone from the office. I knew that they’d send over a rookie – I guess that’s good news – we’re not up against the first team, at least not yet. But I better come over rather than make them come back later. We don’t want to piss ‘em off. Have them wait for me – I’ll get there in 45 minutes.”

  Jennifer came back from the kitchen with a short stack of magazines, mainly Rolling Stone and House Beautiful, setting them in front of the visitors and telling them they had to wait until the attorney arrived. Ng’s expression showed her unhappiness but she made no comment. She took her Blackberry from her purse and pushed buttons. Carson scouted the room, looking at the 20 or so paintings and prints on the wall and the books on the shelves. He picked up and examined knick-knacks off tables and display cases, careful to return them safely to their original positions. Jennifer returned to the TV room to sit with Fred as he finished with Seinfeld and launched into Fraser.

  Greenberg rang the bell half an hour after he had hung up from his call from Jennifer. “Amazing – there was an empty space right across the street. Where are the people from the DA‘s office?” To Jen’s great surprise, the distinguished barrister appeared in Levis and a Grateful Dead T-shirt. She escorted him into the living room where Ng was thumbing a text and Carson was looking at the bottom of a piece of English silver to determine its place and date of origin. Introductions were made; Ng and Greenberg had never met but had talked on the phone to deal with the issue of Klein’s competency. Carson explained his role and his educational bona fides. At Greenberg’s request, Ms. Klein brought Mr. Klein into the living room without the aid of his walker, gently holding his right arm to guard against a fall.

  “Please proceed Ms. Ng, but remember our agreement that you will not ask questions about the episode.”

  “I do remember, Mr. Greenberg. Mr. Carson will be asking most of the questions. Do you have any objections to our using this recorder?”

  “Indeed, I do. You can take notes, but nothing is to be recorded.”

  “OK.” She wasn’t really sure why she couldn’t make a permanent record but didn’t want to embarrass herself by asking. This was her first big case since graduation from the University of San Francisco law school in the middle of her class.

  “Good morning, Mr. Klein. My name is Johnny Carson. I work with the District Attorney’s office and am going to ask you a few questions. Will that be all right?”

  “No problemo. Johnny Carson, huh? Any relation?”

  “No relation. That’s not the first time I’ve been asked that. Tell me about yourself, sir.”

  “What do you mean? Where I was born, my parents?”

  “Whatever you want to tell me.”

  “I’m from New York – the City. My Dad was in music. I went to CCNY then Columbia then Stanford. Got my MBA here and ended up owning a TV station – Latino station. Sold it and have lived off the profits since. Married twice. First wife died of cancer then I married this beautiful young woman – same age as my kids. Got three kids, all boys and a bunch of grandkids.”

  “How many grandchildren?”

  “Uh…three or four. How many, dear?”

  “You have five grandchildren my love, two in B
erkeley, one in San Francisco, and two in LA.”

  “Yeah, right – five. Yeah, one of them has Down’s. But he counts too.”

  “What do you do to keep busy? Got any hobbies? Do you work?”

  “No, living off the profits. I trade stocks – or at least I used to trade stocks. Did real well in the 80s and 90s – no need to work anymore. I’m on some boards – the mayor – what’s his name? – appointed me.”

  “Hobbies?”

  “I play the banjo and go dancing. Love to dance.”

  “My dear, you haven’t taken me dancing since our wedding day. And you got rid of that banjo when Barbara got sick.”

  “I did – why did I do that? I play a pretty mean banjo.”

  Carson continued. “How old are you Mr. Klein?”

  “Hell, I can never remember that. 77 maybe?”

  “You just turned 76, dear. Don’t rush it.” said his wife.

  “What is your birth date?”

  “March 6,” he answered. Jen nodded.

  “What are the names of your children?”

  “The eldest is Jason. The others are twins. But their names don’t rhyme like most twins.”

  “Are your sons married? If so, what are their wives’ names?”

  “Jason is married to a Korean woman – not a very nice person. I like the other two wives – both Jewish.”

  “Are you Jewish, Mr. Klein?”

  “Why do you ask? That’s none of your business.”

  Katherine Ng chimed in, “I think we’ve asked enough questions. Mr. Carson and I have to get back to the office. Thank you very much, Mr. Klein. And you too, Ms. Klein. Mr. Greenberg – thank you for coming – I know you are a busy man.” They headed for the door.

  Carson stepped toward one wall on his way out. “Ms. Klein – is this an original Chagall?”

  “Oh, it’s just a print, but it’s signed. Fred has had it for many years.”

  “Yes sir. I bought that in Geneva in 1964. Cost me sixty bucks.”

  “How did I do, Steve?” asked Klein.

  “It’s Irv, not Steve. You did just fine Fred,” responded Greenberg.”

  “Oh yeah, Irv. Sorry. I had a high school buddy named Steve Greenberg. Big ladies’ man. Made me jealous. So, am I going to have to go to jail?”

  “Fred, I can’t tell you anything now. You certainly aren’t going to be behind bars any time soon.” He turned toward Ms. Klein. “There’s no way the DA could bring him to trial the way he is. They’ve got to put off the preliminary hearing. No doubt, he’s better than he was when I saw him in the hospital, but no jury would ever convict someone who answers questions like he does now. My guess is that I hear from the DA himself, not his lackey, in the next day or two and he’ll tell me that they want your husband to undergo a psychiatric exam in a few months to see if the improvement has gone far enough to proceed with the case. In the meantime, the case will cool down. We won’t be seeing his name in the paper or hear about him on TV. That can only help our odds of a good outcome.”

  Fred broke into the conversation “Anybody know what time it is?”

  “It’s five ’til four, dear.”

  “Oh oh. I got to go back to the TV. Judge Judy is on at four. I got to get ready for my trial.” He chuckled at his joke.

  Three hours later, Greenberg called Jennifer to tell her that he had, as predicted, heard from the District Attorney in person and was told that the case was not being dropped, only postponed. Ng had obviously let him know that he had a loser of a case if he took it to trial with the defendant like he was today. And, obviously no judge would allow the case to proceed. But they figured there was a good chance that his cerebral function would improve with time. “And by the way, Counselor,” the DA said in conclusion, “when the time does come for your client to see a shrink, don’t give him acting lessons. The psychiatrist will see right through it.”

  “Mr. District Attorney, that comment was unnecessary.” Greenberg had a reputation to keep. He was not about to portray an intact man as demented.

  MEGAN TURNS THREE

  Life in the Spencer house was taking on a routine. Five days a week, Meagan went to a pre-school three blocks from their home. Fortunate to have husbanded his income well, Mark could afford everyday help for the house and for his daughter. The nanny/housekeeper, Carmen, came via a recommendation from a client of his. She had been employed by the family for two years before they had been transferred to Singapore at the same time Mark Spencer sought domestic help. Born in Mexico, she had presented papers to her previous employers so Mark saw no reason for her to give him the same. He trusted her from the first moment she came to the house for an interview. The fact that she was strikingly handsome did not dissuade. Her English was accented but educated. She was hired immediately and had not disappointed. The house was cleaner than it had ever been under Teresa’s supervision – his late wife had had help only one day per week and paid little attention to the details. Meagan took to Carmen straight away. A joyous child to begin with, her smiles became wider and her laughter more infectious. Carmen was always available when Mark had to spend the evening, or a day or two, out of the house. He compensated her well and bought her a reasonably new Toyota, paying for its gas, its upkeep and its insurance. Mark made no attempt to get to know about her personal life. He assumed that she was not attached and that she had very few interests other than reading and classical music, both of which she seemed to devour with deep devotion. Symphonies and concerti were a near constant when he came home and books, generally substantive paper backs, often lay open on a table.

  Mark’s work was very much changed by his becoming a widower. Nearly all trips to faraway places like Ivory Coast were put on hold; he was able to mentor less experienced members of the firm on how to negotiate and close deals in developing nations, particularly those with autocratic leaders and sycophantic sidekicks. He devoted his greatest energies to deals close to home. Agriculture, as practiced in the third world was his specialty but robotics and nanotechnology tickled his fancy; he found ample opportunities for investing less than two hours’ drive from the City, both south to Silicon Valley and north to Napa and environs. The future of robots and tiny things was not as certain as that of African cocoa beans but the major players were a whole lot easier to deal with. There was no concern about greasing palms. At least what greasing there was in the US was far less overt than that in the Southern Hemisphere. Spencer spent every weekend at home, priding himself on his previously unrefined skills as a father. He became competent in putting together meals fit for a toddler – mac and cheese, over-boiled string beans, yogurt and cinnamon toast. He learned the nutritional benefit of adding a couple of teaspoons of chocolate syrup to milk and thrilled his daughter at least once weekly with trips to the ice cream store.

  Meagan was to turn three about four months after losing her mother. A party was required. Mark put himself in charge of making out a guest list. He delegated the real party planning to Carmen with Teresa’s sister and niece, Maggie and Ashley, as unpaid consultants. The guests were drawn from other kids at the day care, three toddlers from the neighborhood that Carmen had met through their nannies, and a handful of children and grandchildren of his co-workers at the firm. Maggie ordered the cake and Ashley decorated the downstairs room that Mark and Teresa had identified as a playroom for their three planned children. All gathered on a Sunday afternoon – some fifteen kids and an equal number of adults came. Bob, the beagle, who Mark felt had become morose after the disappearance of the woman who had fed and walked him since puppyhood, perked up at the sudden appearance of a mass of people unlike he had seen in months. Carmen had arranged for the appearance of a clown to make balloons and take pratfalls to the delight of the youngsters.

  As the children played and ate under the watchful eyes of Maggie and Ashley, most of the adults retired to the patio for wine and finger foods. The day was much nicer than Weather.com had predicted – mid-sixties, more sunny than cloudy and barely a touch of
wind. All-purpose Carmen, having left the clown to entertain the children, kept the plates of hot hors d’oeuvres coming and the glasses of pinot, chardonnay, and pale ale freshened.

  The grown-up discussion started with the future of the 49ers and the past of the Giants, the incompetence of the wildly leftish Board of Supervisors, the exorbitant cost of local houses, then the unpredictability of the Municipal Transit Authority. When that led to a lull in the discussion because no one at the table except the host had taken a bus ride in years, one of the fathers, clothed in tennis togs, turned to Mark and asked about the legal matters surrounding the death of Teresa.

  “Nobody tells me anything,” he said. “I used to learn about Klein’s status by reading the paper, but there hasn’t been anything in the Chronicle in weeks.”

  “Don’t you have a lawyer? Aren’t you going to sue the bastard?” asked a prematurely gray mother.

  “Yes, I do have a lawyer – top personal injury guy named Sullivan – Harvard grad. But he told me to sit tight until the criminal case is resolved. He filed a case, but said we don’t have to do anything until we hear what the criminal jury decides.”

  “That could take an eternity. From what I hear, his brain damage is pretty severe,” responded the same mother. “You do know that they postponed his hearing, don’t you?”

  “Of course, that was the last thing I read in the paper. But I also heard that he is improving and that the doctors expect him to get back to the way he used to be. Then they could get the criminal proceedings going again.”