by Libby Howard
I took a deep breath. “Thanks. You’re right. Partial justice. I’ll do what I can and hope that someone else can do what I can’t.”
Originally, this case had been about finding hidden assets for a divorce hearing, but now I wanted to find a way to let Mr. Elmer stay in his home for as long as he could.
And make sure Spencer Thompson’s wife knew what her husband had been up to over the last five years of their marriage.
Chapter 10
My heart wasn’t into yoga the next morning. All I could think about was poor Mr. Elmer and how I could possibly help him. Daisy and I cut our exercise short, and I’d showered and headed out, taking the remaining pumpkin bars and some apricot scones with me as potential bribes. I got the feeling I’d need them.
Marissa Thompson was actually waiting for me at the coffee shop this morning, looking forlorn as she sat alone at a table with her cup in hand. I detailed what I’d found out so far—about her husband’s partnership in an LLC with Tracey Abramson, as well as his suspected ownership of Brockhurst Properties.
“But where is the money?” she demanded, her hand so tight on the coffee cup that she was nearly crushing it. “If he had this other company, he certainly wasn’t getting any of his pay deposited into our joint account. Five years? That must add up to hundreds of thousands of dollars in income.”
I didn’t blame her one bit for being angry. I would be too if I’d been in her shoes. “It should be easy for your lawyer to gain access to that deposit information once you file for divorce,” I assured her. “And I’m sure there’s income in Brockhurst Properties as well. They’ve bought at least one home at a foreclosure sale, so there has to be a checking account somewhere.”
“None of this was on our taxes,” she said between clenched teeth. “None of it. And where did he get the money for this partnership with this Tracey woman? Are they sleeping together? Maybe he’s kept all the money in her name so I won’t be able to get any of it.”
I eyed her in alarm, worried that there was about to be a scene in the coffee shop, complete with screaming and a latte hurled across the room. “Tracey Abramson isn’t a woman. He’s a man. My age or older from what I can see. He’s married, and I don’t get the impression he had anything other than a business partnership with your husband. In fact, it sounds like things are not good between the two of them. Mr. Abramson has been trying to dissolve the LLC for the last few years.”
I thought that would calm her down, but if anything, she seemed to become even more angry.
“There’s no woman. None. He’s just hiding all this money from me, running these other businesses on the side and not letting me know. That bastard. That rat bastard. How could he do this to me? How?”
I’d thought of telling her about Melvin Elmer, perhaps enlisting her help in getting her husband to hold off on the eviction, but I now realized that wasn’t a good idea. Marissa Thompson didn’t look like she was in the mood to be asking her soon-to-be ex-husband for favors, and I was worried that letting her know Spencer was kicking a terminally ill old man out of his home would just be throwing gasoline on the fire.
“You have every right to be angry, Mrs. Thompson,” I assured her. “I’ll continue to find out what I can about these two businesses and any income your husband may have earned from them, but I think you really need to share this information with your lawyer. He can advise you on how to proceed and the best timing for things going forward.”
“How much?” She snapped. “How much do you think he has between these two businesses?”
“I can look into the net worth of the LLC, but that won’t tell me the details of the partnership arrangement and how much of that is your husband’s. I’ll continue to research, but you probably should speak with your lawyer about the next steps.”
“The next steps I take are going to be over my husband’s dead body.” She stood and snatched her purse off the back of her chair. “I thought maybe there were some gambling winnings, or a little side investment, but this? The man might have half a million stashed somewhere. Two businesses, and he never told me about either of them?”
“Please talk to your lawyer before you do anything rash, Mrs. Thompson,” I pleaded with her. Where was J.T. when I needed him? He would have known how to calm this woman down.
“Too late,” she snapped. Then she spun around on her heels and stormed through the door. I heard her car squeal out of the lot as I took a few calming breaths and gathered up my own things, hoping that Mrs. Thompson went home, broke a few dishes, then called her lawyer as I advised. Either way, I needed to let J.T. know what was going on. I’d been so busy yesterday and this morning that I hadn’t even seen him, and other than a quick update yesterday after I’d met with Tracey Abramson, I hadn’t spoken with him. He didn’t know about Brockhurst Properties, or Melvin Elmer.
Tracey Abramson returned my call on my way into the office. It seems Melvin Elmer had reached out to them the day he’d gotten the eviction notice, but they’d told the man they were unable to help him, and that he should contact a lawyer.
“He doesn’t have the money for a lawyer,” I said, narrowly avoiding a parked car in my distracted state. “He’s elderly and terminally ill. Someone stole his identity and now he’s lost his house due to fraud. He needs help.”
“He needs a lawyer,” Tracey said firmly, reminding me very much of Judge Beck at the moment. “We provide reverse mortgage services and other similar services. I can’t grant a program to someone when their home title is in question. The whole thing is a mess and this isn’t something our foundation deals with. He needs a lawyer.”
Once in the office, I worked on some of the Creditcorp skip traces, and organized my data on the Thompson case, the whole time watching the phone and waiting for J.T. to arrive. I nearly tackled him when he walked through the door.
“Oh, thank God you’re here! Spencer Thompson has another business and he’s evicting a dying ninety-year-old man who lost his house because of identity theft and when I spoke to Mrs. Thompson this morning to brief her on the case, she completely lost it and stormed out of the coffee shop in anger. She’s furious her husband was doing all this behind her back. I told her to talk to her lawyer, but she’s so angry. Was there something else I should have done? What should I have done?”
“Calm down, Kay.” J.T. put a hand on my shoulder and pressed me gently back into my chair. “Clients are going to get upset in this business, especially with these divorce cases. I’m sure you did fine. She’ll calm down, go talk to her lawyer, then call us with further instructions. In the meantime, type it all up and tally your hours, and we’ll be prepared to send her our findings and the invoice if she’s ready to turn it over to her lawyer.”
I took a deep breath. “He’s listed as a partner on the LLC and Tracey Abramson confirmed it, so all Mrs. Thompson needs to do is have her lawyer contact them for the details of the business arrangement as well as what was paid out to her husband over the years, but this other business, this Brockhurst Properties… All I have is a tip that Spencer Thompson is connected, a property tax payment that links him and the company, and the word of a ninety-year-old man that says Thompson is involved. I hate to turn that over to Mrs. Thompson’s lawyer until I’m sure.”
Once again, J.T. motioned for me to breathe. “You said in your text that there was an eviction filing? I called for the transcript copies. If Spencer Thompson is involved, he might be listed on those. If not, then if Mrs. Thompson wants, we’ll do more digging.”
“Oh, and do you know any lawyers who might be willing to take a pro-bono case on identity theft of the elderly? Or perhaps a lawyer who might be willing to do a payment plan?”
Find a lawyer. Get the eviction transcripts. Look at the Deed of Trust and Promissory note for the fraudulent mortgage, plus anything else Violet had managed to turn up. It wasn’t just about helping our client at this point. I was determined to find anything I could that might help Melvin Elmer and keep him in his house.
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br /> J.T. grabbed a chair and wheeled it over, sitting down next to me. Drat. This wasn’t a good sign.
“Kay, you’re taking on too much here. We have a paying client. Find out what you can on Brockhurst Properties for Mrs. Thompson and type up the findings and the invoice. I know you want to help this man, but you can’t do everything. You can’t help everyone.”
“But it’s related,” I countered. “It appears that Spencer Thompson owns the company that bought his house at auction. If I can find some information on how he paid for these things, I might be able to track down the bank accounts for Mrs. Thompson.”
J.T. shot me a knowing glance. “Chasing down a Deed of Trust and Promissory note that Thompson had nothing to do with isn’t helping Mrs. Thompson’s case. I understand where you might want to help this man, Kay, but business needs to come first. You’re running yourself ragged with all this.”
“He’s being evicted on Monday,” I insisted. “If I don’t hurry, it will be too late and Thompson will be in possession of the home. By the time this gets resolved, if it ever does get resolved, the house will be sold.”
“Then Mr. Elmer will get the proceeds,” J.T. reminded me. “He’ll get all the profits from the house sale, plus a settlement from the mortgage company.”
“If he wins. And even if he does win and get money, that’s not what he wants. He’s dying, J.T. He wants to live out the last of his days in his home. By the time this court case is resolved, he’ll be dead. All I want is to get enough evidence to convince an investigative reporter to take it on, or to convince a sympathetic lawyer to take it on, or to convince the sheriff’s office to stay the eviction.”
J.T. sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “Okay, but our cases can’t miss deadlines because of this. Call Miles. He’s probably assisted at more evictions than I have fingers and toes. He’ll tell you what forms Mr. Elmer should fill out to get a temporary stay, especially if you’ve got something good in that basket on your desk. You’re going to the courthouse anyway. Have him meet you.”
It was a great idea. I stood and gave J.T. a hug, which he returned awkwardly, then grabbed my purse and basket and headed out, calling Miles as I drove.
The first thing I did was pick up was the transcripts, noting that the clerk J.T. had called also helpfully included copies of the forms to begin the process as well as those requesting the sheriff’s office to serve the notices. The paperwork listed Brockhurst Properties as the plaintiff along with an address and phone number, and a signature by Spencer Thompson. As soon as I got back to the office, I’d do a search on the address to see what I could find. At the very least, Marissa Thompson would have proof that her husband was operating another side business and be able to have her lawyer demand those financials as well as the ones from Humble Properties, LLC.
Heading downstairs, I met Violet, who had the mortgage paperwork copies ready for me. The pair of us looked over them on a bench outside in the hallway.
“Everything looks in order,” she told me.
“Except that it’s not.” I pulled the eviction transcripts from my bag, hoping to compare the signatures, only to realize that Melvin Elmer had never signed either set of documents. Violet looked over my shoulder at the eviction paperwork and pointed to the sheet authorizing the sheriff’s office to act as process servers for the eviction notices.
“You know, I can probably find a copy of the check he used to pay for the process service. He might have screwed up and paid the county taxes with his personal account, but I’ll bet he used a business account for this one.”
She was right. And if there had been a payment to the sheriff’s office in those bank statements, eagle-eyed Violet would have found it.
“That would be incredible!” I exclaimed. “Do you think you could get it for me by the end of the day?”
If I could get Mrs. Thompson an actual bank account, we’d have a happy client. Especially if I could nose into the account using the list of passwords she’d provided and verify the amount of money in there. People tended to reuse the same passwords for multiple accounts. There was a good chance that Spencer Thompson had done the same.
I thanked Violet again for her help, gave her a scone, then headed upstairs to meet Miles, briefcase on one arm and basket of baked goods on the other. Miles was a welcome sight, insisting that he’d be happy to help me, even if I hadn’t brought pumpkin bars and scones. He provided me with some paperwork that would give Melvin Elmer an extra two weeks as a hardship stay, then like everyone else I’d spoken with in the last twenty-four hours, insisted that the best way to ensure Mr. Elmer spent his remaining days in his home would be for him to hire a lawyer.
“I really don’t want to put an elderly man out on the street,” Miles told me between bites of pumpkin bar. “But we can’t really do more than a two-week extension without there being something in process questioning the validity of the property title. And that’s not something a civilian can really do themselves. He needs a lawyer.”
“He can’t afford one,” I told him, repeating the same excuse I’d given over and over again.
“Blow it up on social media. Get the talking heads on the news involved. There’s an ambulance chaser out there who will be willing to make a name for themselves on something like this. Plus, those litigation attorneys are used to getting paid on settlement. It’s how their whole business works. Ask Judge Beck to tell you the name of one he hates seeing in court the most. They’re sharks and they’re masters at spinning public opinion. Get one of them involved and Brockhurst Properties will voluntarily hold off on the eviction to keep a hundred-thousand one-star Yelp reviews from flooding his business.”
I didn’t think Spencer Thompson cared much about Yelp reviews as a property flipper, but Miles did have a point. A divorce was going to be bad enough without a highly public case making him seem like a horrible villain at the same time.
Melvin Elmer did need a lawyer. And I was going to help him find one. First, I’d wrap up this Thompson case and ensure Mr. Elmer had these papers filed to grant him the eviction stay. Then I’d get as much information out in public about the injustice of an elderly, terminally ill victim of identity theft losing his house. Then I’d find the nastiest bulldog of an attorney I could find to take his case.
And hopefully, Mr. Elmer would be able to see those bulbs bloom next spring.
Chapter 11
Miles helped me fill out the petition to delay the eviction, and I ran by Mr. Elmer’s house hoping to get his signature on the papers and file them on my way back from my appointment at Fullbright and Mason. No one answered the door, so I tucked it all inside an envelope and wrote a quick explanation on the front before I wedged it in the screen door, praying as I left that Mr. Elmer actually opened that envelope and didn’t just pitch it thinking it was more junk mail.
I had a secondary motive in wanting to run the signed paperwork by the courthouse myself. Yes, I wanted to help this man as much as I could, but there was that pragmatic side of me that had been a journalist whispering a mantra into my brain. Check and double check—sources, information, and everything. It was too easy when writing a story or investigating a case to get excited and charge ahead on a false lead. I didn’t want to make J.T.’s company look bad or make myself look like an idiot. So I wanted to check Melvin Elmer’s signature against those on the Deed of Trust and Promissory note. I believed Mr. Elmer, but I wasn’t naive enough to believe that I was incapable of being fooled. Time was running out, but if I was going to splash this story all over social media and get the television involved, I wanted to make sure there really was an identity theft, and not just a man wanting sympathy for his poor financial decisions.
I pulled into the parking lot at Fullbright and Mason with a scant ten minutes before my appointment and nearly sprinted through the front doors, tapping my foot impatiently as I waited for the elevator. It was a short ride. Locust Point didn’t have any buildings over three stories, but Milford had several that reached t
o what was for us skyscraper status at six floors. Thankfully the offices of Fullbright and Mason were on the third.
The elevator opened to a sea of glass with shining chrome handles on the double doors and silver etching above. They were the only office on this floor according to the directory, and anyone exiting the elevator had a clear view right in to the receptionist desk and what appeared to be two sets of conference rooms flanking it to the back. I heaved one of the huge glass doors open, signed my name in the guest log, and returned the receptionist’s bright smile and greeting. Within a few minutes, a young well-dressed man who was not Spencer Thompson came and escorted me back.
We passed through a maze of desks, all with people chatting on the phones or typing into computers. The offices along the outer wall were clearly reserved for the executives. It made me wonder how Spencer felt working among the masses in a cubicle. From what I’d gathered, he seemed like the mover and shaker type. I was sure in a lesser firm he would have probably warranted an office with a window. There was always a trade-off to be had in working for a big-name blue-chip company, and that’s exactly what Fullbright and Mason was. Headquarters and major offices in all the huge metropolises, and these smaller but still ostentatious satellite offices in smaller cities. Taking up the entire third floor in this not-so-huge building wasn’t quite as impressive as it sounded, and I quickly figured there were probably ten people warranting the offices and maybe two dozen analysts and advisors out in the mosh pit.
The well-dressed young man led me to a large cubicle, separated from the others with tall dividers. A U-shaped desk took up most of the space, with a computer off to the side and folders neatly stacked and color coordinated in the back. As Spencer Thompson rose to greet me and shake my hand, I noticed the sparsity of personal items in his office space. There was a picture of him and his wife that appeared to be from early, happier days in their marriage. It looked professional, with the sort of pose and composition and emotion of the pictures that came with the frame. Other than that, the only item that hinted at the occupant’s personality was a huge white mug of coffee with a gold dollar sign emblazoned on it. It was on one of those hot-plate thingies that kept your giant mug of coffee hot all day while you sipped from it.
