MD01 - Special Circumstances

by Sheldon Siegel

  "How big is his fee?"

  "I bet he gets at least half a million bucks a year just from Bob's trust."

  Jesus. "What does he have to do to earn his fee?"

  "Not much."

  "What does it take to get money out of one of the trusts?"

  "A signature from Chuckles, or, in the case of Bob's trust, a signature from Bob. Or, in the case of Vince's trust, a signature from Vince."

  "So Vince could take money out on his own?"

  "Sure. All he needs is a fax machine. He's moved money in and out of the trust all the time."

  "So if Russo is alive, he could get money out just by faxing instructions to First Bank?"

  "That's right. Except, of course, for the fact that Russo appears to be terminally dead."

  "So it would seem." Unless he's still alive.

  "Who gets the income from the trusts while Bob and Vince are alive?"

  "It's distributed among a group of people who are called income beneficiaries."

  "Do you know who they are?"

  "Nope. It's a secret. The names of the income beneficiaries are listed in separate, confidential documents. Chuckles never let me see them."

  "What happens to the trusts when Vince and Bob die?"

  "The assets are sold and the proceeds are distributed to a different group of people called the remaindermen." She pauses. "Before you ask, I don't know the names of the remaindermen, either. It was the best-kept secret in the Western Hemisphere."

  That figures. "What happens to the fees paid to Chuckles when they die?"

  "They stop." She thinks for a moment. "He can't prevent the trusts from liquidating. But he can probably slow down the process for years. If he does, he can collect his fees for a few more years."

  Chuckles wouldn't have had any incentive to kill Bob if his death triggered the liquidation of his trust. "Do you know if Bob was planning any changes in his trust?"

  "I think so. A few weeks before he died, he asked me to prepare a list of the steps to amend his trust. He didn't tell me what he had in mind, but I suspect he was considering the possibility of changing the income beneficiaries and the remaindermen."

  "That would make sense if Beth was an income beneficiary or a remainderman."

  "Could be. He was also talking about changing the deal with Chuckles. He always complained that Chuckles made too much money in admin fees."

  Interesting. "What about his will? Was Bob making any changes there?"

  "I know he talked to Chuckles about it."

  This is showing some promise. "Did he ever get around to amending his will or his trust?"

  "Not that I know of. My guess is he died before anything could happen."

  So close. Still, if we can figure out who gets the money from Bob's trust, we may be able to figure out who had motive to kill Bob. Unless, of course, he killed himself.

  Later the same afternoon, Joel, Mort, Rosie, Pete and I meet in Rabbi Friedman's dining room. I've brought Wendy. "I'd like to introduce you to the final member of our team," I say. "Wendy Hogan is taking a permanent leave of absence from S and G."

  Wendy smiles uncomfortably. "That's Mike's way of saying I've been downsized, and I need something to help me pay the bills."

  "Welcome to the Dream Team, young lady," Mort says. "I'm Mort Goldberg."

  "I've heard a lot about you."

  "It's all true," he replies.

  I explain that she isn't going to be of record on the case and she's not going to be employed by our firm. "For now," I say, "she'll be a consultant. Just like you, Mort."

  He gives me a sideways look.

  "Wendy is familiar with Bob's will and his investments," I say. "I've asked her to work with Pete to help figure out how Bob's money gets divided up."

  Wendy smiles at Pete. "Hi," she says to him. "I think I may be able to enlighten you about the International Charitable Trust."

  Pete says, "Sounds good to me," but he's uncomfortable. He likes to work alone.

  "Wendy," I say, "I have another special task for you. You're a tax lawyer. You're good at money. I want you to figure out everything about the firm's finances and Bob's finances. I have a hunch we'll find some answers. Moreover, you'll get to see why you'd never want to be a partner at a firm like S and G."

  "I'll get right on it," she says. "Mort, maybe you can help me subpoena some of the firm's financial records?"

  Mort beams. "I'd love to, honey."

  I'm going to have to remind him not to call her "honey."

  "You sure you know what you're doing with Wendy?" Rosie asks as we stand on her back porch the same evening.

  "Yeah. She's real smart." I pause. "I'd like to help her out. She's a good lawyer."

  "She's a tax lawyer, Mike." She says it in the condescending tone that trial lawyers reserve for transactional attorneys.

  "I know. But she's tenacious. I think she'll help."

  She smiles. "You like her, don't you?"

  I smile back. "Is it that obvious?" I've had a crush on Wendy for five years.

  "Yes." She adds, "And she's pretty."

  "That, too." I drink my beer. "You aren't jealous, are you?"

  She shrugs. "Don't let it color your judgment. Keep it professional. You're running a law practice, not a counseling center."

  She's right, of course. "I wouldn't have brought her in if I didn't think she could help us."

  Her eyes glow in the moonlight. "I'm going to remember you said that. And she'd better keep her hands off my sex slave."

  26

  HUTCH

  "Syc-o-phant n. One who attempts to win favor or advance himself by flattering persons of influence; a servile self-seeker; a toady."

  —World Dictionary of the English Language.

  The next morning, I'm back at the S&G offices. Anyone who believes substance will ultimately triumph over style hasn't met Brent Hutchinson. His entire career is an ongoing charade of teeth, blond hair and good looks. So far, he's been wildly successful. His office overlooking Alcatraz Island and the Marin Headlands is furnished with an antique roll-top desk and two antique chairs. A small oriental rug graces the middle of his floor. He has his own collection of Currier and Ives lithographs. A picture of his cheerleader wife, Barbi, smiles at him from his spotless desk. Life is good in Hutchworld.

  "So, big guy," he says, "how's the new firm working out?" To Hutch, everyone is a "big guy."

  "So far, so good. I seem to have stumbled onto a big murder case."

  "I know. Cool."

  Someday, a team of graduate students will do a dissertation on Hutch called "The Mind of the Sycophant." It will take up many volumes. "Hutch, I came to ask you for your help."

  "Anything. I always try to help out my friends."

  I wasn't aware that we were friends. "I understand from Charles Stern that you've been appointed the czar of the firm's insurance policies."

  He throws his head back like Burt Lancaster. "Insurance czar. I like that." He laughs too loudly. "It's true. I'm the chairman of our risk-management committee. I get to deal with all our insurance issues." He winks. "It's real exciting, Mike."

  I wink back. "I'll bet." The potential exposure for malpractice claims at a firm like S&G is hundreds of millions of dollars. Why they've put a moron like Hutch at the head of the professional liability team is beyond my comprehension. "I'm trying to sort out all of the life insurance policies on Bob. I don't expect to find anything very interesting, but I thought I should talk to you. Does the firm carry any key-man insurance on the partners?" It's the first rule of cross-examination—never ask a question unless you know the answer.

  "As a matter of fact, we do. You know, there was a memo on this sent out to the partners toward the end of last year."

  "I must have missed it." Or tossed it.

  "Well," he says, "we carry life insurance on all the partners. On guys like us, we don't carry much. I think the minimum's about twenty-five thousand. We carry a lot more on the heavy hitters like Bob and Art." He gi
ves me the Cheshire cat grin.

  "How much?" I ask.

  "In a couple of cases, over a million bucks."

  "Do you know how much you're carrying on Bob?"

  The grin disappears. "You know, Mike, now that you don't work here anymore, I'm really not supposed to talk about this stuff with you."

  "But I'm still on the line for the firm's debts that were incurred while I was a partner. If you're going to collect a big piece of change on the key-man insurance, I have the right to know about it." I'm amiable when I add, "If you'd prefer, I can come back with a subpoena." You pretentious little jerk.

  His phony smile returns. "Let's not get excited. We're carrying two and a half million dollars on Bob."

  Good. It confirms what Chuckles told me. "Thanks, Hutch." That wasn't so hard, now, was it? "Charles said you're looking into changing the firm's carrier."

  "That's true. We got some of the first policies in place right before the end of the year."

  Really? I got the impression from Charles that Hutch was just starting the process. "Did the firm take out any additional life insurance on the partners?"

  "Yes. We were trying to bump up the policy levels for some of the more junior people. I know I got bumped up from twenty-five thousand to a half a million."

  That's because you're worth so much. "Was the policy on Bob bumped up?"

  "I don't recall. I can find out."

  "Actually, Hutch, if you'd give me the name of the insurance agent, I can give him a call."

  "It's no problem, Mike. I can find out." Affability reigns.

  "I don't want to take any more of your valuable time, Hutch. Really, it's no big deal."

  He concedes. "His name is Perry Guilford. I'll have my secretary get you the number."

  "Hutch," I say a few minutes later, "Skipper was kind enough to show me some of your cinematographic work from the firm retreat last year."

  He's pleased with himself. "I thought it turned out pretty well."

  Right. "You know, there was some pretty inflammatory stuff in there."

  There's a pause. "You know how it gets at the retreat."

  "Yes, I do." It doesn't mean you have to stick your goddamned camera in everybody's face. "Hutch, the judge asked me whether there's an unedited version of the tape. You know—without all the music from LA. Law. Any chance you saved the original?"

  He's unhappy. He probably thinks I'm trying to compromise his artistic integrity. "I don't have the original. We used it to make the overdubbed version. Our methods are pretty rudimentary."

  I'll say. The special-effects wizards at Industrial Light and Magic won't be real worried. "Did you give Skipper everything you had?"

  His eyes get large. "Yeah."

  "What else was on the tape?"

  "Nothing much. I really don't remember." He isn't looking at me.

  Bullshit. "Who else saw the tapes?"

  "Chuckles and Art."

  What a surprise. "Did they tell you to destroy part of the tape?"

  "No," he says.

  He's lying. "What else was on the tape, Hutch?"

  "I don't remember."

  "We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Now, tell me what was on the tapes."

  No way. He purses his full lips. "I don't remember, big guy." Sure

  27

  DR. KATHY CHANDLER

  "If you'd like to speak to Dr. Kathy Chandler, call 1-800-GET-HELP."

  —KTLK TALK RADIO. FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 20.

  Dr. Kathy Chandler fancies herself the Bay Area's very own Dr. Frasier Crane. Of course, Dr. Frasier Crane has an imaginary degree from Harvard. Dr. Kathy Chandler, on the other hand, has an honorary doctorate in family counseling from Southwestern Texas City College and an honorary degree from the Great Pacific School of Broadcasting. More importantly, Dr. Frasier Crane only talks to imaginary patients. Dr. Kathy Chandler, unfortunately, talks to real people. Every weeknight from seven until ten, she dispenses bubblegum psychology on the live one, KTLK Talk Radio.

  I must confess that her show is mildly entertaining. I listen to it sometimes on my way home from work. I think I'll appreciate it more if and when I get the lobotomy I keep promising myself.

  Like many radio talk-show hosts, she's always known as Dr. Kathy Chandler. She's never simply Dr. Chandler—or, God forbid, Dr. Kathy. And she always refers to herself on the air in the third person, kind of like ballplayers and politicians do. "Dr. Kathy Chandler says to break up with your boyfriend," or "Dr. Kathy Chandler says your husband's no good," or "Dr. Kathy Chandler says your sex life could be a lot better." Makes you want to puke.

  At three-thirty the same afternoon, I make the pilgrimage across the Golden Gate Bridge to the picture-postcard town of Mill Valley, where Dr. Kathy Chandler maintains her office in a turn-of-the-century building across the town square from the old train depot, which has long since been turned into a trendy bookstore and cafe. When I called to make an appointment, Dr. Kathy Chandler's receptionist told me she wasn't taking new patients. When I explained I was a lawyer representing Joel Friedman, I was put on hold for only a moment before the sickly-sweet voice of Dr. Kathy Chandler found its way onto the phone and promised me an appointment. Ah, the smell of free publicity.

  Dr. Kathy Chandler's second-floor office is decorated in earth tones, with gray-beige furniture, light-wood end tables and two large ferns. Her receptionist looks as if she's been through at least a dozen twelve-step programs. There are self-help magazines on the end tables and a large poster of Dr. Kathy Chandler on the wall, along with the KTLK radio logo. As I stare at it, I realize it's the same poster that appears on the side of Muni buses in the city. Dr. Kathy Chandler's office is considerably different from the office of the shrink Rosie and I went to see in our abortive attempts at marriage counseling. Chuck was a terrific guy, but I sort of lost faith in him when I found out he was a fifty-five-year-old bachelor. Somehow, I figured no matter what he'd read in all the textbooks, he couldn't quite relate. He tried very hard to get us to see what he kept calling the big picture. He never realized he was dealing with little-picture people.

  The receptionist gives me a warm smile, and I take a seat between a suntanned woman with bleached hair who is hiding behind a pair of dark sunglasses, and a man I recognize as a local television personality. Dr. Kathy Chandler's clientele is pretty well-heeled.

  At exactly four o'clock, the door opens and I'm granted entry into the inner sanctum. The receptionist shows me into a tastefully furnished room with more muted tones and ferns. Quiet music surrounds me. One of those tacky miniature artificial waterfalls cascades behind Dr. Kathy Chandler's desk. In all fairness, the whole thing is very soothing.

  I feel like Dorothy waiting for the grand entrance of the Wizard. The door opens. I expect to hear trumpets. I'm not prepared for what I see. The posters on the buses and in the reception area don't begin to do her justice. Dr. Kathy Chandler is about six feet tall and Cindy Crawford beautiful. I'm beginning to see why Bob Holmes paid her a fortune to spend forty-five minutes a week with her. "I'm Dr. Kathy Chandler," she purrs. Her tone is soothing. She pushes her long blond hair out of her striking blue eyes.

  "I'm Michael Daley. I represent Joel Friedman."

  "I know." The voice is pure caviar. She sounds better in person than she does on the radio.

  "Dr. Chandler," I say, "I understand Bob Holmes was a patient of yours."

  "Yes he was, Mr. Daley." She licks her lips. "It's a terrible tragedy."

  "Yes it is." Composure. "Dr. Chandler, how long had you been treating Mr. Holmes?"

  "Not for very long. Probably about three months."

  "I see. And how was his treatment going?"

  She pouts. "Mr. Daley," she says, "you're a lawyer. You know I'm not permitted to talk about my patients. It's privileged." She blinks her big blue eyes and gives me a look that says she'd love to help me, but the big bad lawyers won't let her.

  "I understand your concern," I reply, "but the privilege ends when a pati
ent dies." This isn't exactly true, but she isn't exactly a lawyer. "And it would be very helpful for us to understand the nature and extent of your treatment of Mr. Holmes."

  The kittenlike facade disappears. The claws come out. "Mr. Daley," she says in a businesslike tone, her voice dropping at least half an octave, "it has always been my policy not to discuss the treatment of my patients with other people."

  This is an interesting argument from a woman who gives free advice on the radio every night.

  "Dr. Chandler," I say, "I'd rather just ask you a few questions. If you insist, I'd be more than happy to come back with a subpoena." And then you'll really have a lot to talk about from seven to ten tonight.

  The kitten reappears and the voice goes back up. "Very well. Ask your questions. If I don't want to answer, I'll tell you so. And if I need to get my lawyer involved, I will. Believe me, I will."

  I believe you, Dr. Kathy Chandler. "Dr. Chandler, what were you treating Mr. Holmes for?"

  "A lot of things. But mostly, he had relationship issues. He'd been divorced several times."

  No shit. "And he was about to get divorced again."

  "So I understand," she says. "I was working with Mr. Holmes on creating a foundation for solid relationships—and to try to temper his enthusiasm for extramarital activities."

  "I see. And were you aware that he was having an affair with Diana Kennedy?"

  "Oh, yes. That's really where his treatment started. He and Ms. Kennedy had been seeing each other for about a year. When Mrs. Holmes found out at the beginning of December, she asked Mr. Holmes to leave. About the same time, Ms. Kennedy broke up with Mr. Holmes. He was quite upset."

  "Did he try to reconcile with his wife?"

  "Yes. The reconciliation was unsuccessful. He began seeing someone in late December. I assumed he had rekindled his relationship with Ms. Kennedy, but it may have been somebody new. He was terribly conflicted about it. He missed his last couple of appointments."

  I decide to probe a little deeper. "Was Mr. Holmes depressed the last time you saw him?"

  "In the clinical sense, no. He was quite distraught, but he wasn't clinically depressed."