Outwitting Trolls

by William G. Tapply

  “That’s right,” Sharon said.

  “Has this number been renegotiated?”

  “No.”

  “So every month since this agreement was approved, you’ve gotten monthly checks for alimony and child support.”

  “One check, actually,” said Sharon. “He lumped the child support and the alimony together.”

  “You’ve been financially dependent on him. Your ex-husband.”

  “I wouldn’t—”

  “Don’t answer that,” I said. To Benetti I said, “The numbers are right there. You can judge them.”

  “Let me put it this way,” Benetti said. “Did what your husband pay you in alimony and child support adequately cover your children’s college expenses and your own living expenses?”

  Sharon looked at me, and I nodded.

  “Not really,” she said. “I’ve always had to work.”

  “Did you ever ask him to increase his payments?”

  “We already stipulated that the child support was renegotiated,” I said.

  “How about since then?” said Benetti. “That was quite a few years ago. Alimony or child support?”

  “No,” said Sharon. “Well, yes. The child support. When Ellen graduated from college.”

  “Other than that?”

  “No,” Sharon said. “It stayed the same. We didn’t talk about changing it.”

  “The subject was never even mentioned? You never complained to him about how hard it was to make ends meet? You never told him that you and the kids were struggling, or that college costs were skyrocketing, or how hard you were working just to keep your head above water?”

  “You’re being argumentative,” I said.

  “You can’t object,” said Benetti. “This isn’t a courtroom. There’s no judge.”

  “Well,” I said, “I’m telling you, I do object.” To Sharon I said, “Don’t answer those questions.”

  “I don’t mind,” she said.

  “No,” I said. “Please don’t.” I looked at Benetti. “My client answered your question. She and her ex-husband did not discuss or argue about finances, and I object to your browbeating her.”

  “I’ll remind you again, Mr. Coyne,” she said, “this isn’t a courtroom, and you can’t object to something just because you don’t want to hear it.”

  “Okay,” I said, “but we don’t have to sit here and pretend that this wild stuff you’re throwing around should be taken seriously, either.”

  Benetti shrugged.

  “You have nothing except some supposition, then,” I said. I set my forearms on the table and leaned forward. I looked at Horowitz, then at Benetti. “If this is all you’ve got,” I said, “this unsubstantiated implication that my client and her ex-husband might have discussed family finances, might even have had a disagreement about money, which, if it did happen, which my client says it didn’t, would only make them just like everybody else—if that’s what you’ve got, then we’re done here.”

  Horowitz grinned. He was leaning back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest. He was enjoying the show.

  Benetti smiled across the table at me. “We’re not quite done yet,” she said. She looked at Sharon. “Do you know who the beneficiary of your ex-husband’s will is?”

  I touched Sharon’s elbow. “Don’t answer,” I said.

  She looked at me. “But I don’t—”

  I held up my hand, and she stopped.

  I looked at Benetti. “I bet you already know the answer to your question.”

  She smiled. “In fact, I do.” She leafed through some papers and held up a thick document. “The Last Will and Testament of Kenneth Roland Nichols.” She pushed it across the table to me.

  It was nearly half an inch thick, held together by one of those big spring-loaded paper clips. I glanced through it. It was, of course, a photocopy, and it included not only Ken’s Last Will and Testament but also his Declaration, his Durable Power of Attorney for Health Care, his General Power of Attorney, and his Trust Agreement. The boilerplate was similar to what my clients and I worked with all the time.

  It had been properly signed, dated, and notarized. I didn’t bother studying the details. I pushed it back. “It appears to be a copy of his will, all right,” I said to Benetti. “What about it?”

  “Mr. Nichols had it rewritten last October,” she said. “You can see the date on it.” She looked at Sharon. “Did you know about that?”

  “Stop that,” I said quickly, before Sharon could say anything. “Don’t answer,” I said to her. I turned back to Benetti. “This is relevant why?”

  “Your ex-husband,” Benetti said to Sharon, “didn’t appear to have much of an estate. In fact, he owed quite a bit of money.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” Sharon said.

  “Mr. Nichols’s father is a different story,” Benetti said. “The elder Nichols is in poor health, and he happens to be extremely wealthy. I’m talking several million dollars.” She looked at me. “Up until last October, when Mrs. Nichols was the primary beneficiary of her former husband’s will, she’d have been first in line for the elder Mr. Nichols’s estate if her husband was deceased.”

  Sharon was frowning and shaking her head.

  “Do you understand what I’m saying?” Benetti asked her.

  “You’re saying that Ken wrote me out of his will.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So there’d be no money coming to me if he died.”

  “As far as it goes,” said Benetti, “that’s right. His children are his cobeneficiaries, and, in fact, they are also the contingent beneficiaries of the elder Mr. Nichols’s will.”

  I cleared my throat. “This is interesting,” I said, “and we appreciate your sharing this solid evidence that since she’s no longer his heir, my client would have no motive to murder her ex-husband. Or was there some other point you thought you were making?”

  Benetti looked at Sharon. “So how do you feel about being written out of your husband’s will, Mrs. Nichols?”

  “Stop that right now,” I said. I turned to Horowitz, who’d been sitting there all this time with his arms folded across his chest and a bemused smile playing around his mouth and eyes. “Tell her to back off,” I said to him, “or we’re ending this right now.”

  “Back off.” Horowitz grinned. “Or they’ll end it right now.”

  Benetti returned his grin, then turned to me. “We haven’t quite exhausted this subject,” she said. She flipped through some documents. When she found the page she wanted, she frowned at it for a minute, then looked up. “Back to the divorce agreement. Let’s take a look at Exhibit E. Insurance. It’s on page thirteen, paragraph four.”

  Sharon and I turned to page thirteen, paragraph four.

  “Got it?” asked Benetti.

  We nodded.

  “Mrs. Nichols,” said Benetti, “you want to read paragraph four out loud for us?”

  “Mrs. Nichols absolutely does not want to read paragraph four out loud,” I said. “As you have pointed out, this isn’t a courtroom. We can all read paragraph four for ourselves.”

  Benetti grinned across the table at me. “For the record,” she said, “I will read paragraph four out loud.” She cleared her throat. “Here it is. It says, ‘The husband shall maintain his current life insurance policies for the benefit of the wife and dependent children. The issue of the husband’s obligation to maintain life insurance for the wife after the children’s emancipation may be reviewed upon such emancipation.’” Benetti looked up at Sharon. “So did he?”

  Sharon frowned. “Did who what?”

  “Did your husband—your former husband—maintain his life insurance?”

  Sharon turned to me.

  I shrugged. It was a question of fact that could easily be checked. “Go ahead,” I said to her. “Answer the question.”

  Sharon looked at Marcia Benetti. “I don’t know,” she said.

  “You don’t know? Really?”

&n
bsp; Sharon shrugged. “Really. I never asked Ken about his life insurance, and he never mentioned it. I assume he maintained it. If he didn’t, he’d’ve been breaking the law, wouldn’t he?”

  “So you believed that he continued to invest in life insurance for which you and your children were the beneficiaries, even though he wrote you out of his will. Is that right?”

  “I didn’t know he’d written me out of his will,” Sharon said, “but as far as keeping up the insurance goes, yes, I guess so. I really never thought much about it. It didn’t seem, um, relevant to my life. I mean, that was in our agreement so that if something happened to Ken, the kids’ education would still be covered.” She turned to me. “Isn’t that right, Brady?”

  “It’s standard in most divorce agreements,” I said. “A way of guaranteeing that the husband’s obligations to the dependent children are fulfilled even in the event of his death.”

  “So,” Benetti said to Sharon, “as far as you know, your husband was carrying up-to-date life insurance in your name at the time of his death, is that right?”

  Sharon shrugged. “As far as I know. In my name and my kids’ names, I assume. Like I said, I haven’t really thought about it.”

  “Do you know how much coverage he had, in your name, payable to you upon his death? Money that, in fact, you are now entitled to?”

  “No.” Sharon shook her head. “I have no idea.”

  “Really?”

  “She answered your question,” I said.

  Benetti gave me a quick smile, then shifted her gaze to Sharon. “In fact,” she said, “your ex-husband’s life insurance policies, of which there are three, are all payable to you. You are the primary beneficiary. Your children are contingent beneficiaries, meaning they’d get the money only if you were dead. Did you know that?”

  “I might have,” Sharon said. “I honestly don’t remember. It’s not something I’ve ever given much thought to.”

  Benetti said, “Does one-point-nine million dollars sound familiar, Mrs. Nichols?”

  Sharon said nothing. I glanced sideways at her. She was looking down at the sheets of paper on the table in front of her, avoiding Benetti’s hard look. I read tension—or maybe it was anger—in the set of her jaw.

  I cleared my throat. “This has been a lot of fun,” I said, “but now we really are done. On behalf of my client, I’d like to thank both of you for dropping by this morning and sharing your fascinating, and very creative, speculations about your murder investigation with us. Now, if you don’t have anything new you’d like to talk about…”

  “I’d just like a clarification,” said Marcia Benetti.

  “Of course you would,” I said. “Go ahead.”

  “Mrs. Nichols maintains that she didn’t know what Mr. Nichols’s life insurance was worth, or that she was the sole beneficiary. Correct?”

  “Your recording will confirm that she said that, I believe,” I said.

  “She has also told us that she and her ex-husband did not even discuss, never mind argue about, finances.”

  “She said that, too,” I said.

  “She further said she didn’t know that Mr. Nichols had changed his will.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And Mrs. Nichols,” said Benetti, looking hard at Sharon, “you understand that what you’ve said to us here can be used in a court of law, and that if you lied to us today, it would be tantamount to perjury.”

  Sharon nodded. “I understand that, yes.”

  “I have just one more question for you, then,” Benetti said.

  Sharon looked at me. I nodded.

  “Mrs. Nichols,” said Benetti, “did you know that your husband—your ex-husband—had requested some documents from his insurance company that would enable him to cash out his life insurance policies, and that if he had not died, he would apparently have done so?”

  Sharon shook her head. “Cash out?”

  “Terminate them for their cash value.”

  “So he’d get the money,” Sharon said, “and I would no longer be insured? Is that what you mean?”

  Benetti nodded. “Luckily he was killed before he could complete the paperwork.”

  “Luckily?” I asked. I looked at Horowitz.

  He grinned and shrugged.

  “I didn’t know anything about this,” Sharon said.

  “Please think carefully about your answer,” Benetti said.

  “She said no,” I said.

  “Could he do that?” Sharon asked me. “I mean, the divorce agreement says he’s supposed to maintain his life insurance.”

  “The insurance company doesn’t know about divorce agreements,” I said. “They’d do it, unless your lawyer intervened.”

  “How could he if we didn’t know?” she asked.

  “Exactly,” I said. “So he’d do it, and he’d get the cash, and then it would be too late.” I looked at Benetti. “Your question’s been answered. My client knew nothing about this. Is there anything else?”

  Benetti glanced at Horowitz. He shrugged. “Okay, then,” she said, “we’re concluding this interview now. Thanks for your cooperation.” She looked at her wristwatch. “It’s, um, twelve minutes after eleven.” She reached out to the recorder and snapped it off.

  Horowitz slid his paper back into his manila folder, stuck the folder into his attaché case, and stood up. Marcia Benetti put the recorder into her bag, and she stood up, too.

  Sharon and I also stood up, and we reached across the table and shook hands with the detectives. Then I opened my office door and held it for them. I followed them out into my reception area. Sharon remained in my office.

  “You’ll be hearing from us,” Horowitz said.

  “I hope you’re pursuing some other avenues in your investigation besides this one,” I said.

  “Thanks for the reminder,” he said. “We appreciate your guidance.”

  “You check out that license plate I gave you?”

  “Was I supposed to submit a report to you?” he asked.

  “I do have an interest in this case.”

  “You take care of your client,” he said. “We’ll take care of our investigation.”

  “Good deal,” I said.

  After they left, I went back into my office. Sharon was standing by the big window, looking down onto the courtyard outside the Copley Plaza Hotel. She looked up when I closed the door. “Are they gone?”

  I nodded. “Are you okay?”

  She rolled her eyes. “My head’s spinning.”

  “It’s a lot of pressure. You handled it well.”

  “So what was that all about?”

  “What part of it?”

  “Right there at the end,” she said, “reminding me that what I said could be used against me, and cautioning me about lying, and smiling at Detective Horowitz as if she’d caught me red-handed.”

  “Nothing to worry about,” I said. “Assuming you told the truth.”

  “Well, I did,” she said.

  “Okay, then. Good. So you’re all right, huh?”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “It was easy. When you’ve got a clear conscience and you tell the truth, it’s pretty unstressful.”

  “I’m glad,” I said. “So tell me. If the detectives look into your finances, will they find unpaid bills, maxed-out credit cards, gambling debts, anything like that?”

  Sharon shrugged. “I’m carrying a balance on two credit cards. That’s about it. Why? Is that bad?”

  “If you owed a lot of money,” I said, “it would make murdering Ken for his insurance, and doing it now, before he could cash it in, a believable motive.”

  “I guess it would,” she said, “but I don’t owe that much. Six or seven thousand on one card, a couple thousand on the other. I pay every month. I’m not behind on anything. I’m getting by.”

  I nodded. “Okay. Good.”

  “So now what?” she asked.

  “Now,” I said, “we go back to living our lives. Assuming they can’t c
ome up with somebody who can testify that they heard you and Ken arguing about money, or somebody who says you were telling them about how you were going to spend his life insurance, then one of their theories was destroyed here this morning.”

  “That I killed Ken for money.”

  I nodded.

  “I didn’t, you know.”

  I nodded.

  “I didn’t kill him for money,” she said. “I didn’t kill him, period.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “I mean,” she said, “how stupid would that be? To hang around the hotel where a hundred people could see me and testify I was there, and then go up to his room and kill him, and then hang around and call my lawyer, for God’s sake, and wait there in his room for the police to show up? And do it for his life insurance? I mean, is that not the world’s most obvious motive for murder? Do they think I’m completely clueless?”

  “Most murderers are utterly clueless,” I said. “In fact, the scenario you describe is quite plausible.”

  “Except for the fact that I didn’t do it.”

  “Except for the fact,” I said, “that you didn’t confess to doing it.”

  “Most clueless people would just confess,” she said.

  I nodded. “Happens that way all the time.”

  “Well,” she said, “I’m not clueless, but I do not have anything to confess.” She started to stand up. Then she sat down again. “Oh. I remembered something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Clem. You’ve been asking about some friend of Ken’s named Clem, and I’ve been racking my brain, and I finally came up with something.”

  “You remember this Clem? Salt-and-pepper beard, receding hairline?”

  “I have no idea what he looks like. Maybe it’s not the man you’re looking for. It was a long time ago. Ken had this old friend from college days named Sean Clements.”

  “Did Ken call him Clem?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not sure. I just flashed on his last name last night. I don’t think I met him more than a couple of times, and like I said, it was a long time ago.”

  “Any idea where Sean Clements is now?” I asked. “Is he a veterinarian?”

  “Last I heard,” Sharon said, “he was teaching at BU, I think it was. Or BC. I get them confused. History, I think.”