by Ray Flynt
Sharon reached over and patted Gertie on the arm.
Em spoke up. “It wasn’t right what Andrew was doing with the company. All the changes he made—it was hell for everybody.”
Brad propped his elbows on the table, clasped his hands together and leaned forward until his hands supported his chin. “I’m meeting with Hiram later this afternoon.”
Alarmed, Gertie said, “Oh, please don’t tell him I told you.”
“Don’t worry. He won’t need to know.”
Em downed the rest of his iced tea, and pushed back his chair, saying, “We appreciate your hospitality Brad.”
“Actually, there’s something else I’d like to talk with you about. I understand you’ve filed for bankruptcy.”
“And what if we have?” Em said, defensively.
“It’s no shame, Em,” Gertie commented.
“I guess what I’d really like to know is what I can do to help.”
“We don’t need your charity,” Em said, rising from his chair. “Come on, Gertie, let’s go.”
Gertie raised her left hand, trying to stop him. “We appreciate your concern, Brad,” she said. “Really, we do. There have been a lot of medical bills, and I’m afraid it’s gotten us overextended. Em seems to feel that bankruptcy is the best solution.”
“I could buy back your Joedco stock,” Brad said. “I understand you bought 40,000 shares the week after my mother and sister were killed.”
“The timing was unfortunate,” Em said, fiddling with the napkin beside his plate. “We had a deadline to exercise a stock option. We took money out of savings—left over from the sale of all of the original farmland around our property—and used it to buy the stock.”
“Em handled the purchase at the bank,” Gertie explained.
Em looked perturbed.
“I could buy back your stock,” Brad said again. “Perhaps that would eliminate the need for the bankruptcy.”
“I... maybe it—” Gertie began, but Em cut her off.
“Brad, I don’t think you fully understand. My wife is a profligate spender.” Em punctuated every syllable. “A few years ago we used the stock as collateral for extensive renovation work done on our house. The stock is not ours to sell at the moment. If you gave us a million dollars it would be gone next week. Two million the week after that. Three million by the first of the month. If you’re offering charity, we don’t need it.”
Gertie’s chin dropped onto her chest. Her jaw quivered.
“Let’s go, Gertie.” Turning to Brad, Em said, “I know the way out.”
Em Lindstrom grasped the handles on the back of the wheelchair and started pushing her out of the room.
“Never mind all the money he’s sunk into that old car over the years,” Gertie said as he rolled the chair around the corner.
“Shut up you old windbag.” Brad could hear Em barking at her in the hallway.
After a few moments of silence, Sharon said, “Well, that was a pleasant lunch.”
“There’s still an apricot torte in the refrigerator,” Brad said. “Would you like some?”
“Nah, maybe later,” Sharon said. “Em complained that Gertie was a spendthrift, but didn’t Andy tell you how she drove people crazy at work accounting for every penny?”
Brad nodded. “She was certainly the latter at work. Dad spoke of it too. Gertie was very fastidious. But I don’t think it’s uncommon for people to apply different standards to their personal and work lives. Em is probably right. They were always traveling and having parties. Gertie’s wealth was inherited. She grew up learning how to spend it, but not necessarily to manage it.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Brad fingered the business card Ron Allessi had given him, then laid it on his desk. He dialed the phone number on the card, but voice mail answered. He didn’t bother to leave a message. Besides, he thought, Allessi probably had caller ID and would know he’d tried to reach him.
Turning his attention to the fax his brother’s office had sent, Brad studied the agreement between his dad and Gertrude Cole, made when he was barely two years old. She had loaned a million dollars to help his parents start Joedco—an abbreviated version of Joe and Edith’s Company—which didn’t seem like too large a sum given what he knew of her family’s wealth. The loan was to be repaid at seven percent interest, slightly higher than mortgage rates at that time, Brad thought. It took ten pages of legal jargon to lay out the fairly simple terms, hidden between plenty of whereas’ and party’s-of-the-first-part. He stuck a copy of the document in his jacket pocket, intending to ask his father’s attorney if he could shed any additional light on the arrangement.
Sharon was waiting for him beside his car, and they headed for Hiram Gibbons’ office. Clouds moved over the area from an approaching cold front, but blue sky was still visible on the horizon as he sped down the Schuylkill Expressway into center city Philadelphia. Inbound traffic was light, but backups were forming on the outbound lanes from commuters hoping to beat the worst of the rush hour traffic. Once they reached the grid of city streets it all seemed a tangled mess of late afternoon traffic.
Brad pointed to a contemporary glass and steel building. “Dad’s office used to be right over there,” he explained, “on the northwest corner of 18th and Market Streets. Dad had a great view to the north. When I was a kid I loved staring out his office window and watching the Amtrak and SEPTA trains as they traveled between 30th Street and Penn Stations.”
Brad pulled into a parking garage.
Hiram Gibbons’ office was on the 27th floor of the “clothespin building” in downtown Philadelphia, directly across from City Hall. Claes Oldenburg’s sculpture of a gigantic clothespin stood in front of the building. Most people couldn’t remember the official name or address of the building, but everyone knew the landmark piece of art.
The receptionist, a petite African-American with her hair pulled back on her head, greeted them as soon as they stepped off the elevator, inviting them to have a seat while she notified the attorney. Brad caught a whiff of her exotic perfume, and noticed her long fingers were accented with ebony polished nails. She punched a few buttons at the console on her mahogany desk and spoke into a headset announcing their arrival.
Brad sat on a plush rust-colored sofa arranged with several chairs on an intricately designed Persian rug in the lobby, while Sharon stood staring out the window.
A few moments later, Hiram Gibbons came striding across the lobby. He was the kind of guy for whom a $1200 suit was made—gracious, unflappable, circumspect. Hiram spoke in a deep bass voice. “Brad, Ms. Porter, welcome. Thank you so much for coming. I would gladly have driven out to see you.”
“I won’t take much of your time,” Brad began.
Hiram grabbed Brad by the elbow and guided him to his office, with Sharon several steps behind. “I hope the traffic wasn’t too bad,” the lawyer said.
Hiram paused briefly at his secretary’s desk. “Kristin, hold my calls.”
Gibbons’ corner office overlooked Philadelphia’s ornate City Hall with the famous statue of William Penn on top. The lawyer sat with his back to the window, which shadowed his face, but accorded his visitors spectacular vistas past the business district to the Delaware River, with New Jersey barely visible through the distant haze. Sharon stood for a few more seconds, gawking at the view.
“What can I do for you,” Hiram asked, when they’d settled into their seats.
“I need information,” Brad began. “In the week before my mother and sister were murdered you bought 32,000 shares of Joedco stock. Why?”
Hiram laughed quietly. “I believe in the free enterprise system. Is there anything wrong with buying stock?”
“You’re avoiding my question,” Brad said with a smile.
Hiram leaned forward. His dark skin shined and his eyes were wide and penetrating as he looked at Brad. “First, I’m not sure I remember the reason. Second, you should have told me why you wanted to see me, in advance. Then I could ha
ve checked my records. That was a long time ago.”
Brad inched forward in his seat. “I understand that during that same week you had a confrontation with my father in his office regarding an advertisement for a new General Counsel.”
Hiram leaned back, his hands laced together in front of him, and thumbs tapping against each other. “Yes. I remember it very well. We had words on that subject, the first and only time your father and I ever exchanged harsh words. In the end we both discovered that our beef was with Andrew, since your father didn’t know any more about the proposed changes than I did. Joseph finally got Andrew to reverse course. If you’re suggesting a causal relationship between my stock purchase and the altercation I had with your father, let me assure you that there wasn’t one.”
“There’s another subject I’d like to pursue with you,” Brad said. “When Dad and Mom started Joedco they borrowed a million dollars from Gertrude Lindstrom; she was Gertrude Cole then. This afternoon I received a faxed copy of the terms under which the money was borrowed.” He reached in his coat pocket and handed Hiram a copy. The attorney studied the document as Brad continued. “They were to make a full repayment of the loan over twenty years, with no penalty if repaid sooner. As collateral, Mom and Dad had to name Gertie as a beneficiary in their Wills in an amount equal to the outstanding principal and interest on the loan. In addition, Gertie retained options to purchase stock in Joedco at one-half the market value for a period of thirty years. Can you shed any more light on this arrangement?”
Sharon withdrew a small notebook from her purse, along with a pen, prepared to take notes.
Hiram leafed through the document for the next several minutes, occasionally nodding. Then Hiram sat up straight in his chair; his legs were set wide apart, and his large hands grasped his kneecaps as if he were picking up a grapefruit. Smooth and articulate, Brad imagined him as a Supreme Court justice. “Another firm drafted this agreement,” he began. “It pre-dates my work with your father. I don’t think this type of agreement was unusual given the circumstances. Your father started the business with a promising—and as it turned out—a very lucrative idea. He came out of the academic world but without a lot of business acumen; I think it would have been a challenge for him to arrange financing through conventional sources, back in the days when a banker grilled you in the hot seat across from his desk. Your mother came from a wealthy family, but until your grandfather died she didn’t have an independent source of money. I recall asking Joe why he didn’t get his father-in-law to bankroll his idea. It was a question of pride for him, not wanting to rely on family, to make it on his own. Having Gertie named a beneficiary in both of their Wills was good protection for her. I don’t know, maybe your parents offered that kind of guarantee, without her asking for it. As far as stock options, they’re fairly common in business deals. I don’t see anything unusual. I recall reviewing this agreement in the files when I was general counsel.”
Brad stared out the window.
“Is there something else?” he heard Hiram ask.
“There’s no mention in the agreement for Gertie’s involvement in the company. Yet I know that she served as Joedco’s chief financial officer for quite a few years.”
Hiram scanned the legal papers again. “This is strictly a loan documentation. There may have been other reasons why she and your dad chose to work together.”
“Yes,” Brad said, after awhile.
Brad stood to leave, then turned to Sharon, asking, “Could you wait for me in the lobby? I’d like to speak with Hiram privately.”
“Sure,” Sharon said, hurriedly gathering her purse—nonplussed by his request.
“What is it?” Hiram asked, after the door had clicked shut behind her.
“About my father’s Will,” Brad began.
“Yes, what would you like to know?” Hiram spread his arms in front of him. “We don’t have any secrets from each other.”
“Taking my brother out of the Will,” Brad said, hesitantly, “was that really Dad’s idea or yours?”
Hiram sighed deeply and clasped his hands. “If you had asked me that question a few minutes ago, I might have thrown you out. But I can see that something is troubling you. I’ll be honest. I don’t care much for your brother, and I’ve made no secret of it. But I worked for your father. He found me fresh out of law school at Penn, and gave me the opportunity of a lifetime to be the general counsel for his promising new enterprise. When Joe suggested taking Andrew out of his Will I honestly tried to talk him out of it, not because of any warm feelings for Andrew, but because I thought I knew your father well enough to realize he might regret his decision later. In the back of my mind I imagined revisiting the issue with him, six months or a year later, but after his physical condition deteriorated I decided not to raise the subject,” Hiram said, with a wave of his hand. “Am I sorry your brother lost out on the fortune of a lifetime? Not. One. Bit. Your brother is the kind of man for whom the phrase ‘blood is thicker than water’ is a crutch. He stands behind your family name like it’s a shield that will protect him. Your Dad spent thirty years developing a solid business reputation. In my opinion, your brother’s already managed to squander that. Quite frankly, if he weren’t your brother I doubt you would care one iota about his inheritance.”
Brad knew his brother’s faults, just as well as Andy knew his. They seldom expressed an inclination to walk a mile in the other’s shoes. But Andy was still his brother, and he loved him.
“The company has done very well under Andy’s leadership,” Brad said.
“That may be, but is success just about the bottom line?” Hiram asked rhetorically. “Back to your point, Brad, the ethical question for me regarding your father’s Will is: Did I act in your father’s interest and at his direction? The answer is, I did.”
Brad digested Hiram’s comments, then stood up. He clasped the attorney’s hand and grasped his shoulder. “Thanks for your candor. I think you’re right about my father regretting his decision to disinherit Andy. I don’t want to challenge the Will, but I’d like you to draft an agreement that would share half of my inheritance with him. I haven’t discussed this with my brother, so please keep it confidential.”
Hiram exhaled. “It could take awhile. I’ll have to get a tax attorney involved.”
“There’s no rush. Work up a draft and we’ll talk again.”
Hiram nodded.
Brad found Sharon standing next to the lobby windows gazing at the Philadelphia skyline.
He retrieved his car from the garage and they drove one block north before heading west on JFK Boulevard toward the Expressway.
Pointing to his right, after they’d passed City Hall, Brad said, “There’s Penn Station.”
“Is that the back of your dad’s old office building on the left?” Sharon asked.
“Yup,” Brad said.
“You were talking about Andrew, right?” Sharon asked, as they inched their way onto the expressway.
Brad didn’t respond at first. He thought about what Hiram Gibbons had said about success and the bottom line. What was the real bottom line in business, or life for that matter? The simple answer eluded him. When he spoke, it was to reminisce. “I remember playing baseball in the backyard when we were kids, just the two of us. Andy would pitch, and if I’d hit the ball I would run toward the bases we set up, like a rock for first base, a piece of wood stomped into the dirt for second base. If I made it to second, I’d return to the plate to bat again, and we’d agree that an imaginary man was on second base. Then if I made it as far as first base on the next at bat, the imaginary runner would advance to third—I think we used an old burlap sack for our base marker there—and then there’d be another phantom runner on first. My brother liked to tag out these imaginary runners. Even if I safely got to a base, he’d chase down the ball and then claim to have tagged out the guy ahead of me. This was when I was eight or nine and he was thirteen or fourteen. He was bigger and older, and I could never successfully argu
e with him.”
Sharon laughed. “I can just picture the two of you.”
“Andy certainly showed his competitive spirit, even then.” Brad continued, “I was eleven years old when he went off to a private school in Virginia for his junior and senior years. From there he went to Duke, and I’d only see him occasionally during the summer or at the holidays.
“It’s funny,” Brad mused, “when we were kids I looked up to him—wishing I could be just like him. I think I’ve spent more time with Andy this past week than at any time since the kidnapping. I see how different we’ve become.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Brad felt like cheering as he hung up the phone from talking with Ralph Blankenship, the managing partner of Blankenship, Trawler and Ivanic. A productive conversation, Brad sensed a potential breakthrough with Ron Allessi. He tore off the half-sheet of paper on which he’d copied a West Philadelphia address, folded it, and placed it in his wallet.
Brad set up an easel with a flip chart next to his desk on which he wrote the words from Frank Wilkie’s final message.
me and eddie not big guy
paid money kill
eddie talked he get killed
find real killer
i sorry
Out of the corner of his eye, Brad saw Sharon amble into the office, sipping through a straw from her travel mug, just as he finished writing the last line. “Good morning,” he said.
Sharon looked first at him, waving hello, and then spotted the flip chart. Brad walked over to the French doors. Shielding his eyes from reflected glare he checked a thermometer just outside the window. “It’s sixty-eight degrees, would you mind if I opened these doors.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” Sharon said. The room needed airing out from the stale odor of Andy’s cigars, Brad thought, as he propped open the door. Cool, fresh air drifted into the office.