by Ray Merritt
No hint of condescension there.
Any good lawyer knows to whom to pay deference and I was coming to pay respect to one of the best of them. A jolt of turbulence brought me out of my reverie and back to the matter at hand.
I was a bit flattered, but not surprised, by the invite. Ben was a decent man. I had not known his first wife, Maude. She died shortly after their twin boys perished in a boating accident at their family’s summer retreat in Michigan. Ben was left to care for his remaining son and daughter. As I understood it, he stanched the pain of his losses by devoting all of his energy to creating his empire. Starting with a small electronics operation, he parlayed the company through a string of astute acquisitions into a national electronics chain with more than 1,800 outlets.
It was when he took that enterprise public that I joined the Firm and it was that transaction that propelled him into client dominance and me into Evan’s fold. Even though I was only on the third-tier team, I became within weeks the “oil canner,” the one who made sure that the disparate teams—tax, securities, corporate, estate planning, and due diligence—were in sync and that the deal was moving smoothly. Thirty lawyers from within the Firm and a swarm of outside consultants who brought patent, trademark, and intellectual property expertise were needed to complete the transaction. With a small dose of manners, a large amount of moxie, and some considerable sucking up, I was able to survive until the deal closed.
After that there was no stopping Baum. Using stock instead of cash, Ozone became a rapacious acquirer and a darling of the market. Within a few years, the company amassed an asset base of over four billion dollars and its success accelerated my rise to partnership, for I was Evan’s boy.
The rest was a short and painful history—climaxed by my self-imposed exile to Twenty Acres. All those memories were beginning to gurgle up like bad wine and no digestive was going to quell them.
At the edge of my eyes, I noticed that the video screens on the plane registered “Estimated Flying Time 1:38 hours, altitude 37,000 feet.” The little airplane icon was aimed at London with Grindavik and Reykjavik in the upper corner.
I was having second thoughts.
Maybe I should be going to Iceland.
Often the unknown is better than the known.
In London I was staying at the Sloan Club, a small residential club nestled in Chelsea. Formerly a service officers’ facility catering to women in the armed forces during World War II, it later morphed into the Helena Club for Ladies under the tutelage of Princess Marie Louise. By the late seventies, it was liberated—men were admitted—and it became simply the Sloan Club.
It was one of the few places where I could be sure of not having to bump into, or bunk with, any of my former partners. The rooms were not Wi-Fied; there were no minibars.
Unacceptable for the twenty-first-century law practitioner.
The club consisted of a four-story red brick building with facades festooned with gables and gargoyles. Behind its centuries-old exterior, extensive refurbishing had spawned a number of modestly appointed rooms, suites, and apartments.
The management was proud of its atmosphere, which belonged to an earlier, more charming era. The most endearing member of the club’s staff was General Dogsbody, better known as Badger the Beagle. Badger came from a long line of soldiers. Beagles were bred originally as desert scouts and performed admirably in the Boer Wars, providing early alerts to Zulu attacks. For that, they were awarded the right to smoke—the only breed (of dogs) to gain that distinction.
Fortunately for them, they keep dropping the pipe.
Having Badger to myself was yet another reason I liked day flights. You arrived during the dinner hour when almost all the other guests were out of the hotel, so you had the beagle all to yourself.
Badger’s domain was the club’s public rooms. His favorite pastime when he wasn’t officially greeting new guests at the front door was policing the sitting room during afternoon tea, where he brazenly helped himself to tea cakes. It was represented that he did so with no thought of his own pleasure, but to fulfill his canine duties of ensuring that only the best remained to be served.
I was jolted as soon as I entered and came face-to-face with an elegantly framed copy of Badger’s obituary.
His death hung in the air, fitting for this trip.
4
Ambien helped me get to sleep.
It did not, however, prevent me from dreaming.
Crows again, gathering with a purpose known only to them. Two of the more fascinating animal encounters I’ve had at Twenty Acres involve crows. One was a mating ritual in early spring. It had snowed the evening before we came upon them as they were making their match. The male, I presume—there is apparently no way to tell other than by close physical examination—strutted and fluttered and then slid down a small embankment; the female dispensed with her preening and followed suit. They then did it together repeatedly, very much in sync. Having tired of that, they flew together again in paired formation for what seemed like an hour, finally flying off for what would be a lifetime together.
Forevermore.
They soon became almost our house pets—expecting and often demanding alms, in the form of food bits. We named them Heckle and Jeckle—not original but apt.
The other encounter was more somber. Several years ago, about this time of year, I went for a long solo walk. Alice, the kids, and Nip were off on errands. It was a bleak day. A muster of crows had gathered in a clearing and cawed raucously for a long time. I stopped to watch. When the cacophony ceased, silence took over except for the cawing of one crow. Then, as if on cue, they all took off—leaving a corpse to nature. I assumed it was the soloist’s mate.
Together nevermore.
Huntsmen coined many collective nouns for a muster of crows or ravens—a conspiracy, a hover, a mob, a clamour, a murder, and an unkindness. They have a gravitas about them that you don’t find in the more flighty and decorative members of their species.
My dream did not seem to have a point, or perhaps I awoke prematurely. The clock read 9:05. I bolted up. Funeral at ten. Holy Trinity! Holy shit! It would be criminal to be late, and with lightning speed, I wasn’t.
The parish church of the Holy Trinity is a Chelsea landmark—an imposing, if not inspiring, edifice. The architect who designed it for the Earl of Cadogan at the close of the nineteenth century seemed to freely incorporate French, Gothic, and Renaissance influences.
At least that is what the bronze plaque on the wall indicated.
I read it intently, as a way to catch my breath.
Entering the vestibule, I came upon a receiving line, which consisted of Evan, then Dorothy, and finally the grieving wife, Tremaine. Peter Abelard, the executive director of the Baum Foundation, and a close confidant of Tremaine’s, stood a few feet away, ever watchful of his patroness. Dorothy’s eyes were weary and raw but welcoming. Tremaine’s were hidden behind her designer sunglasses.
Strategic for her; she was never a good actress.
Lady Tremaine, as she was maliciously nicknamed by those who had to do her bidding, was clearly the event coordinator. It was abundantly evident that she was going to wrap her dearly departed in enough pomp, piety, and pretense to dissipate the sordid stench surrounding his demise.
A fortune of flowers brought life to the century-old entrance. A profusion of candles softened the somber interior. The line of mourners moved steadily along, with the greeters giving rote thanks for each person’s presence.
I took the most inconspicuous seat I could find. It turned out to be a good one for viewing those assembled to pay their respects and fealty.
I was surprised at the size of the crowd. The Firm’s attendees, led by Evan, consisted of all of the Executive Committee plus four lawyers from the London office and Charlotte. Across the aisle was a large contingent from the Ozone board, as well as a sprinkling of company executives whose faces were familiar, led by Luc Grogaman, Ozone’s second-in-command and heir apparent to B
en’s throne. One person missing was Ben’s son, Leo. Perhaps it was thought too much for him.
The rest of the audience appeared from their sartorial elegance to be Tremaine’s London support group. She was born here and in fact met Ben here at a charity event that Ozone had underwritten.
All the women were in traditional ceremonial garb—black dresses adorned with diamonds and furs. The gems struggled to glitter in the muted light but the furs worked well to take the chill out of the church. Their escorts sat in uncomfortable silence. It clearly wasn’t their thing.
Kati Krkavec, I was later told, was not there.
In the back of the church, anonymous onlookers filled the seats. Funerals always seem to attract strangers. In a way,
modern-day death rituals are the original reality show—a spectacle played out with pomp where the participants often manifest openly emotions normally submerged. Positioned attentively, kneeling on needlepointed cushions, these voyeurs seemed wrapped in collective relief.
Perhaps here but for the grace of God they might well have lain.
A solemn choir and a sonorous organ attempted to project over the collected beats of heavy hearts. They easily succeeded.
The minister rose and spoke:
Death is nothing at all.
I have only slipped away into the next room.
I am I and you are you.
Whatever we were to each other, we still are.
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.
Smile, work, think of me.
Let my name be the household word
that it always was.
Let it be spoken without affect,
without the trace of a dark shadow on it.
Life means all that it ever meant.
There must be an unbroken continuity.
I am with you, somewhere very near,
just around the corner.
All is well. I will bask in the grasp of my friends
and the lovingness of my children.
That sermon, he advised, was penned by the canon of Saint Paul’s Cathedral well over one hundred years ago.
Intentionally generic; unwittingly on target.
Tremaine did not seem to appreciate it.
Ministers often get it right. If religion is the human response to inevitable death, then it’s understandable that funerals are the mainspring of the church’s activity.
All of this was getting me edgy.
Perhaps death brought closure for the deceased, but not for those left behind. For them it often left a festering wound.
I could attest to that.
Evan then mounted the podium and delivered a well-crafted eulogy, gamely touching on all the proper politic points. Those of us who knew Ben felt it was a belated plea for his defense delivered after the verdict was in.
Following the minister’s somber closing prayer, the cortege of mourners began their exit. As they passed by, it only underscored my implacable abhorrence of this death ritual. Clearly this event was more for the vanity of the living than for the honor of the dead.
I was right three years ago in forgoing the funerals.
After a few perfunctory salutations to those who lingered on the steps outside the church, I invited Charlotte back to my place for tea. She quickly accepted. Both of us were apparently looking to avoid Tremaine’s reception.
Charlotte Williams was one of the few partners whose company I missed. She was my contemporary and had served all my clients’ trust and estate needs. And she did it very well.
Trust and estate lawyers, however, are a breed apart. While the rest of us turn to the sports page or the business section with our morning java, they scour the obits, looking for opportunities.
They are, however, a relatively kindly lot. The one practice group that makes house calls. They ooze tact and diplomacy. Since, as a rule, estate planning is a loss leader, they rarely work their way into the Firm’s power ranks, especially if they are female. They simply make too little rain, and rainmaking—fee generation—is essential for a power position. As a result, they often have less agenda and more transparency. You know where you stand with them. And, since the corporate lawyers are in a true sense their clients, they are invariably accommodating and pleasant to us.
Charlotte was no exception; she exuded empathy.
Additionally she was good at contemplating life’s fragility. She understood powerful clients’ need for validation after death, if only through the carefully constructed distribution of their wealth.
For moguls like the Wiz, wealth transfer was often their greatest gift to their progeny, friends, and retainers. Correctly done, it would wash away the sins of the deceased or at least deter those left behind from despoiling their grave.
Clients love to create testamentary plans so complex that it secures their progeny in a tightly woven family web—all to create a more perfect life for those they leave behind.
Charlotte spun their webs.
I remember spending many hours after work with her and some of our cohorts contemplating life with the aid of some liquid spirits. Charlotte was always amused by men’s preoccupation with death. It seemed to appeal to her slightly arachnid side, especially when mellowed by merlot.
She would start those conversations with a challenge. There was for her only one question: “Are you afraid to die?” The men in the group would muster enough false bravado to proclaim not.
“If not,” she retorted, with irrefutable logic, “then death is sad but acceptable. If you are,” she warned with the subtle dramatics of a darker voice, “it is unimaginable and unacceptable.”
She would then take another sip from her glass as she wryly observed our individual discomfort. She would not let us squirm too long.
“That leads us to the ultimate question. What implications does that have for the meaning of life?”
At that point, things got too heavy for her male audience and we would force a change of subject and trade Firm gossip.
I thought back to the time Charlotte reviewed Ben’s estate planning with me. She confirmed after hours upon hours of planning sessions with Ben that he was no exception. He viewed death as nothing more than an insidiously dirty trick. Ben had told her that, for him, death was not a segue to a better place—for life was the end, not a means; death was an atrocity.
5
Charlotte and I settled into a corner of the Sloan Club’s public rooms. Plush couches of paisley framed a well-worn table that comfortably held a classic afternoon tea setting, complete with cakes. It still exuded warmth, but it was missing Badger.
A subtle unease settled between us.
I took the initiative. “What did you think of the service?”
She took the lure, and from there on, things went better.
“Well, it was the Lady T show, for sure!”
I could sense the feline in her taking over.
“You were probably oblivious to the high priestess’s garb. That dress that covered her very expensive breasts was Narciso Rodriguez. And the jacket Chanel. The shoes Manolo Blahnik. Gucci sunglasses and a Hermès Kelly handbag. Just the right touch, right down to the diamonds, probably borrowed from Winston. They set off her Cartier watch to a T. She always feels more secure when she’s properly architected. This was her coming-out party for membership in the Sisterhood of Gilded Widows.”
She kept going.
“No Hindu suttee for her to throw herself on. She had enough flowers, music, bells, and candles to placate any spirits that might be nosing around. She is no ‘Monaco Maiden,’ but in all fairness Ben was no prince. Before the Wiz, she was at best D-list—all attitude and implants. Now she has bankability!”
“Smart lady!” I interjected.
“And she had the comfort of her friends. They came in enough mink to deplete the whole farm. Their men seemed ill at ease. I’ll bet many of them knew Tremaine quite well. Before snaring Ben, she was known as the ‘London Open.’ ”
Her claws were now fully exte
nded. No sweet purrs here. I half expected her to cough up a hair ball on the couch.
“What got your tail, girl?”
“I’m sorry. That woman really gets to me. When she got news of Ben’s death, she had her lawyer, Jasper de Vil, call me. You remember him?”
“He repped her when you did the prenup. I remember him as particularly obnoxious.”
“One and the same. He called shortly after Ben died to inform me that Tremaine would prefer for his firm to handle the administration of the estate. When I advised him that it wasn’t her call—that Ben had named Evan the executor—he all but accused me of being conflicted. The conversation did not end well.”
Charlotte sensed that she had gotten a bit too spiky so she crossed her legs, smoothed her hem, and delicately picked off a few errant balls of wool, buying just enough time to gain her composure.
“Poor Dorothy,” she volunteered, changing the subject. “She seems to be in so much pain, but she is handling herself, as you would expect, with dignity. She adored her father. Must be gruesome to share the cortege with that grass widow. By the way, Dorothy is quite anxious to talk to you. She called me twice to confirm you were coming. What’s up?”
I answered honestly. “No idea.”
“Tuck, let’s get back to you.”
I knew I couldn’t avoid the subject for long, especially with her.
“It’s really good to see you. I’ve missed you. Can’t tell you the number of times I’ve thought of calling you, but I was afraid of intruding on your mourning.”
“I’m all right. I’m not so much grieving as I am healing.” That was my preferred stock response, even though it sounded a bit canned.
“What are you up to?” she inquired.
“Not much. I work around my property. I really have little to do and no time to accomplish it.”
A feeble attempt at humor on my part.
“I’m glad you’re here, Tuck. As you can imagine, this is a big to-do at the Firm. Evan is in full battle gear. He’s assembled a transition task force. Put me on exclusive duty until the Will is probated. I’m surprised he let me come over here for the service.”