Deathbed Dimes

by Naomi Elana Zener

  “I was only kidding. Like I’m going to leave right before I make partner to eat ramen on the floor of your pool house as we represent one client and tan all day?” Coco said dismissively. “Out of curiosity, what would the health plan be like?”

  “I’d have to check with Sylvia,” I laughed. Right then my mother stepped out on the patio having returned from her dinner with her agent.

  “Did I hear my name?” Sylvia asked, before leaning in to whisper conspicuously. “Ooh cute men. Joely, you should give them your number. Only for practice, though! I doubt any of them are Jewish or make much money.”

  “Ok, I’m done,” I said, exasperated. “Coco, I’ll call you tomorrow. G’nite, Mother.” I returned to my bedroom in the main house as the cater waiters cleaned up and Coco and my mother lounged, enjoying the eye candy.

  I woke up at noon the next morning, having enjoyed a leisurely sleep in after forcibly removing all ways Dr. Feelgoodstein could reach me, and hurried to get ready for my lunch with Esty. When I arrived at the Ivy, Esty was already seated on the front patio — a prime celebrity-viewing spot.

  “How are you?” I asked as I sat down. “I see you found your way to the peanut gallery.”

  “This is fantastic. So far I have seen Mariah Carey, Joan Rivers, Justin Timberlake — who I am convinced winked at me — and Kim Kardashian,” she chirped, wide-eyed and smiling.

  “I’m glad you were able to amuse yourself. Have you ordered anything yet?” I asked.

  “Just some water and bread,” she said, tearing off a piece of the warm rosemary focaccia in front of her. “The waiter thought I was from Mars because I asked to eat carbs.”

  “That’s LA. You’ll get used to it,” I chuckled. “Everything here is fantastic.”

  “Why don’t you order for us,” she suggested. I called the waiter over, knowing exactly what we’d be having.

  “We’ll have two Caesar salads, no croutons, and two crab cakes. And a bottle of this 2001 La Crema Chardonnay,” I ordered, handing our menus to the waiter. He scooped them up before trying to remove the breadbasket. “We’ll keep the bread.”

  The waiter leaned in, grimacing awkwardly. “Excuse me, Miss Zeller, but you know that your mother has instructed us not to serve you any carbs.”

  “Well, I don’t see her anywhere near here, so we’ll just keep the bread and it will be our little secret, ok?” I suggested.

  “Well, ok,” he said hesitantly. I saw that Esty had ordered only tap water, so I asked that he bring us a bottle of Voss as well. I’ll leave him a thirty percent bribe-tip for the bread, I thought as I watched him walk away.

  “Listen, before we start, I want you to know that you are not being sued,” I said.

  “But I was served with a whole bunch of legal documents telling me that I won’t receive my aunt’s money,” she said.

  “You were served with a standard notice to heirs, which is required when a will is being admitted to probate,” I told her, trying not to sound pushy.

  “How did you know I got one of those?” she inquired. “I never told you I had received that.”

  “You said that you were served. That’s what you would be served with,” I explained.

  “Oh. Well, here are the papers,” she said, handing me a large envelope. I recognized my former law firm’s seal right away. “What about my contract for the show?”

  I ignored her question about the show and took out the notice and letter from Chip in which he advised Esty that she had no claim to Ivana Iretzski’s estate.

  “So he really thinks he can steal this estate out from under you,” I mused to myself.

  “Steal it? What do you mean?” she asked. “Who?”

  “Estates cases are rarely one-sided. So to tell you that you have no rights is premature,” I offered cautiously. “Chip is an idiot to suggest something like that.”

  “Who’s Chip?” she asked. “This letter is from a Chester Hancock.”

  “I’ve heard his name when I was practicing in New York and I’ve been told he goes by Chip.”

  “I see. So what about my contract for the show? I need to sign it by tomorrow.”

  “I’m not really an entertainment lawyer, but I do know someone who could have this reviewed in no time for you,” I offered, knowing Coco had colleagues at her firm who needed some billable hours and could turn the contract around in an hour. “Do you have an digital copy of it?”

  “They emailed it to me a few days ago,” Esty said, fishing in her purse for her phone.

  “Send it to me, and I will forward it to my friend,” I said, turning my eyes back to the letter.

  Nowhere in the notice or in the accompanying affidavit from Mandy Chalmers was there any mention of undue influence, despite the case reeking of it. I surmised from Chip’s letter that his approach was to serve notices to all of the heirs under the earlier testamentary documents advising them that they had been disinherited in the hopes that none of them would dispute the second will’s validity. He must have thought that since a lawyer was informing them that Ivana had left them nothing, they would not contest probate of the second will.

  “Joely, the food is here,” Esty said, trying to bring my gaze up from the paper.

  “Oh, ok,” I said, letting my mind relax a little.

  “This is amazing,” she exclaimed, digging in happily. “I need to enjoy this while it lasts. I need to lose 10.4 pounds.”

  “10.4 pounds? How did the producers come up with that precise number? Why do you even need to lose weight? Isn’t this a songwriter contest?” I asked, the sentiment prickling some resentment for my own mother.

  “I’m a front-runner in the competition, and the producers think with the screen time I’ll be getting it’s important that I look my best. They weigh us weekly and found me to be 10.4 pounds overweight.”

  “Welcome to the entertainment biz,” I said, sticking a forkful of crab into my mouth.

  “So what do you think I should do about this case against me? Do I have to pay any money to these people? Isn’t getting my aunt’s money enough for them?” she asked, a touch of anger flaring up.

  “No. You don’t have to pay them anything. They served you notice that they are seeking to admit this will to probate because they have no other choice. Since there were so many different wills, and because you were named as a beneficiary under an earlier document that may not be invalid — despite their best efforts to say it is — you need to be notified. They figured that you would choose not to challenge this second will since it took so long to find you,” I rambled quickly.

  “How did you know that it was hard to find me?” she asked, piling some crab cake onto a bite of Caesar salad.

  “Um, well, the notice lists your aunt’s death as having occurred a while ago, but you were only served just recently,” I said, knowing that I couldn’t let Esty in on things yet.

  “So what do I do now?” she asked.

  “Well, they are alleging that the will in their possession is the right one and that the earlier ones had been revoked. If this is true, then you don’t have to do anything. They will file the second will uncontested and you can go on your merry way. However, you can challenge their attempt to probate the second will on the basis that it is invalid,” I said, feeling energized.

  “Wow! I would have never figured that my aunt would leave so many wills,” she said.

  “It’s not uncommon, especially when someone is separated from family. There are loads of cases where people try to take advantage of the elderly to convince them to leave their estate to them,” I said, hoping Esty would catch the allusion.

  “Oh, I know that. My aunt’s friend Rita would send me letters all of the time telling me about this nurse, Mandy, and how she was a manipulative bitch hired through the son of that rich developer, Sumner something,” she said

  “Sumner. It says it right here.” I pointed the name out to her.

  “I sort of remember him from when I was a little kid. In any event, I
have a letter here that I received from Rita about a month before Aunt Ivana died that included a handwritten note from my aunt telling me that the codicil to the first will she sent me years ago was her one true will. I guess amidst the chaos in her mind, she still knew that something fishy was going on with Mandy and the Sumners,” she said, shrugging as though she hadn’t just revealed a key element of the case.

  “Why didn’t you do anything?” I asked, my fork held mid-air as I gaped at her.

  “Well, who am I? I thought that if my aunt really wanted me to have her money she would have taken care of that,” she said, looking up from a bite herself. “Besides, I have no money to fight them.”

  “First, you don’t need any money. The legal fees will come out of the estate. Second, you are getting paid for your TV appearances so you have money to cover any legal fees that are required up front, like a retainer to cover disbursements, things like filing fees and photocopies. Last, from what you just told me, you have a smoking gun that blows their argument apart,” I said in amazement. “Do you still have the handwritten codicil in your possession?”

  “Of course, I’d never throw things like important legal papers away. I had no idea that I could challenge this second will,” she said. “How do you know so much anyway? How do you even know about the codicil?”

  “The codicil was mentioned briefly in Mandy’s affidavit as being a testamentary document that is most likely invalid since your aunt only had a photocopy of it in her possession,” I said, trying to throw her off me. “Look, Esty, I have to level with you. I have more estates knowledge than I made out.”

  “How much more?” she asked.

  “It’s what I practiced exclusively in New York,” I said. “Let me assure you that I am fully qualified to help you and, I can tell you from the little I know from this meeting, you are rightfully entitled to your aunt’s estate.”

  “I had no clue. I just thought that there was no way I could fight this,” she said.

  “You can and you should,” I advised, looking her in the eye.

  “But what about my contract?” she asked. I grabbed my iPhone and forwarded Esty’s email to Coco.

  “It’s taken care of. I’ll have an answer back in an hour or two,” I said.

  “You’re amazing!” she cried.

  “So what do you want to do about this second will?” I asked.

  “Fight it! I am sick of being steamrolled. My aunt was all I had and I owe it to her to honour her wishes.”

  “Fantastic!” I exclaimed, wheels turning.

  “So what do we do next?” Esty asked.

  “I take it then that you want me to act as your attorney?” I asked.

  “Most definitely,” she said.

  “My normal retainer is five thousand dollars. Do you have that kind of money?” I asked, knowing from a quick glance at her email that she would be paid for her appearance on the reality show.

  “I’m getting paid enough money to cover that,” she replied.

  “Great. I will only be using it to cover disbursements. Ultimately, I will take a 30% contingency fee for taking on your case,” I advised. Esty stared at me blankly.

  “Contingency means that my legal fees don’t get paid up front. I only get paid from the money you win, if you do. That way you’re not out the cost of my legal fees,” I explained.

  “Joely, I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but on the plane you were saying you wouldn’t practice law again. It seems like this is a big case for you to handle on your own,” Esty said with concern.

  “Oh, I am not on my own,” I said. “I have a partner who is an incredible litigator and who can easily handle this case.” Sure, Coco wasn’t exactly signed up for this yet. It didn’t seem like anything a poolside daiquiri couldn’t fix.

  “I don’t want you to think that I don’t have faith in your ability or anything like that. I thought that if you did my contract, you would see that you shouldn’t throw your legal career away. I guess you had figured that one out on your own,” she said, smiling sweetly.

  “I’ll get started on filing a notice of objection to challenge the validity of this second will on the basis that Mandy’s will is fraudulent. I’ll also request a change of venue on the basis that you live here and have no ties to New York despite the fact that the situs of the estate is in South Hampton,” I said. “We’ll bring the fight to our turf and have home court advantage.”

  “Wow, there you go with your ‘lawyer-speak’ again. Listen, I trust you completely,” Esty said. My iPhone buzzed with a ping from Coco’s colleague; the contract was kosher.

  “You’re good to go on your contract,” I advised. “You can go to their office to sign it this afternoon.”

  I texted Esty with the address of the reality show’s law firm. I accepted her retainer, figuring that there was no basis to disqualify me from representing her since the information I knew was no different than what was in Chip’s notice and Mandy’s affidavit.

  “This is amazing. To think that I was on the verge of a mental breakdown and now, here I am, ready to take on what comes my way,” she exclaimed.

  “Good,” I said, still lost in thought. I signalled to the waiter to add the charges to my mother’s tab, grabbed my purse and stood up. “Well, I have loads to do, and I’m sure that you need to rehearse, so I’ll check in with you later. You have my number so just call if you need anything.”

  “Joely, thanks again for everything. I know I can trust you!” Esty squealed as she came around and hugged me. “I had better run so that I can take care of the contract before rehearsals.”

  After Esty left, I grabbed my iPhone and dialed Coco.

  “Yes?” Coco asked, knowing from her call display that it was me.

  “Am I bothering you?” I asked.

  “Sorry. I just found out that while I’ll be offered a partnership, my little indiscretion — because apparently I was screwing myself on the managing partner’s desk — has disqualified me from making equity partner. Ever. Income partnership for life is bullshit. That means I will top out at $600,000 max a year while the firm will make millions off of my hard work!” She let out an animalistic scream. “I’m not naïve. I knew that there would be consequences, but I didn’t think that the firm would take it this far. On one hand, they want me to stay, but on the other hand, everything they are doing screams ‘get the fuck out!’ I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  “Well, you could stick it out,” I offered half-heartedly, knowing exactly what I could offer her if she said no.

  “No way. If I have to sit at Wallis Stolk for another day and hear the partners say ‘Isn’t our little fortune cookie great!’ one more time, I’ll lose it. First of all, I’m not from China, fucktards! I grew up in Bel Air across the street from Tori Spelling and went to the whitest school around. Maybe I should just be grateful that I’m not a handicapped lesbian Japanese lawyer, then I would never have made it this far!” Her pitch crept up steadily.

  “I have an idea, but you probably won’t like it,” I offered. I knew Coco was a sucker for reverse psychology.

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” she said, still fuming.

  “I just met with that girl I was telling you about, Esty, and agreed to represent her in an estate challenge. You could help me,” I suggested.

  “The chick whose talent show contract you asked me to have reviewed? I am not interested in leaving my cushy six-figure salary for a piddly nothing case,” Coco replied.

  “I suppose if you call 30% of a billion dollar estate piddly—” Coco cut me off.

  “One billion dollars? US dollars?” she asked incredulously.

  “Yup. And I know for a fact, given the estates genius that I am, Esty will win,” I said, confidently.

  “How sure? Is this something that came across your desk in New York?” she asked.

  “No,” I lied, thinking back to my involvement at Mavis.

  “Ms. Zeller is one of our employees who will be assisting Chip o
n your case,” Skeet told the clients, putting an arm out to keep me from coming any closer to them. Lovely. I had been reduced to being an employee, not even an associate.

  “To that end, Joely, be a dear and get our clients some coffee,” Skeet continued, placing a hand on Mandy’s back as she took her seat. Typical fake-blonde bimbo. Why am I not surprised?

  After taking their drink orders and serving them, I grabbed a coffee and cookie. I sat down on the other side of the conference table near the doors to the boardroom, took out the file and scattered the relevant documents. Chip looked over at the mess of papers and smirked.

  “My, my, Joely. You’re not yourself today,” Chip said, pulling up a chair next to me. “Ms. Zeller, you really should be more organized. This does not make for a great first impression for the client.”

  I swivelled my chair around to find Skeet and John standing right behind me.

  “Nor does wearing the same clothes as you wore yesterday,” Chip remarked, pausing and allowing the partners enough time to give me a once-over. John and Skeet gave me another set of disapproving glares before taking seats alongside Mandy and Mr. Sumner.

  “Thanks, Chipwit,” I muttered under my breath, pulling the client file out of my attaché case.

  “I bet that right about now you’re wondering ‘Shit, how did Joely get the file I hid from her on purpose in my super secret hiding place?’ Maybe if you think really hard you’ll remember that you told me where you hid your spare set of keys to your office and armoire. Oops!” I whispered into his ear. “That’s right, Mr. Potato Head. I got the file. There was no way I was going to let you screw with me this time.”

  “Really, Joely, it’s not in my interest to be deleterious. Clearly California has shown you one too many conspiracy movies,” he said.

  Deleterious. The only reason he could ever know that word would be if he had seen my notes. OH SHIT, I screamed in my head. There was no way I was going to let him steal my hard work and look like a hero to the client. Thinking quickly, I knocked my coffee into his lap so he would let go of them. Dark mocha all over his prissy violet and cream pinstripe Zegna suit should do the trick.