by A. Turk
At ten sharp, the minister opened with the Lord’s Prayer and introduced a family friend and the family attorney, Morty Steine.
Dressed in a black pinstriped suit, a crisp white button-down shirt, and a maroon tie, Morty walked slowly to the podium. At seventy-four he projected a stately image, but it was an aura that he wasn’t a man you wanted to get on the wrong side of. He became a powerful force in any room he entered. He was in control of the room.
He looked incomplete without his cigar. Peter was reassured that Morty knew his mother well and had a way with words. He’d do their mother proud.
Morty cleared his throat and, in a southern-educated voice, began, “Family and friends of Lillian Nichols, it is with great pride and honor that I stand before you and address you today in remembrance of Lilly. She was a remarkably strong woman, who was also gracious and generous. I have no prepared notes. I thought it better that I spoke from my heart. I figured the words would come to me as I reflected on Lilly’s life.”
Peter thought, Despite age, the old man still knows how to address a crowd. I bet he could still give an effective opening or closing argument in court. Peter’s mind drifted to the murder trial of his father. He remembered how Morty had been an advocate for Al and him to attend, over the initial objection of their mother. He returned to the eulogy.
“As a young girl, she met Peter at Nichols’s Market when she was hired by him. It was love at first sight. I know because I was there when my friend first laid eyes on her.
“I was Peter’s boyhood friend, and we learned retail together. I worked for my family business, Steine’s Department Store, right across the street from Nichols’s Market. We lived on the same block in Germantown, and the families opened their businesses in downtown Nashville a year apart. Both businesses flourished and became part of the Nashville community and helped its people through the Great Depression and through the war.”
Morty, like the son Peter Nichols, elected not to make his career in the family business. Morty chose to go to law school and practice law.
Morty continued, “After Lilly and Peter married, they worked side by side in the market, and then Uncle Sam wanted Peter, who served in the navy while Lilly held down the store. Her two sons, Albert and Peter Jr., are here mourning her.
“For more than twenty years Lilly and Peter worked together until one summer night when Peter was murdered in a senseless holdup. The family asked me, as the family’s attorney, to prosecute the murderer, which I did. That person is still serving his life sentence at Brushy Mountain State Prison.
“After Peter’s death I became extremely close to Lilly. I tried to be a father figure to the boys and helped when I could. They became good men because of Lilly’s hard work and efforts.”
Peter remembered the times that Morty spent with him and his brother, providing the male touch.
“After Peter’s death, Lilly and Albert operated the market together for another fifteen years until she retired seven years ago. Albert ran it until last year when a piece of Nashville history closed.
“Lilly knew almost everybody who worked downtown. She always had a pleasant word and always shared her memorable smile. She was a beautiful young woman, but till her dying day she kept her beautiful, memorable smile.”
In closing Morty remarked, “We’re all going to die. They say taxes and death are the only certainties. I’ll tell you another certainty: Lilly is in heaven, looking down on us with her beautiful smile.”
The old man walked down from the podium and first embraced Albert and then Peter. It was a bear hug, and he kissed Peter on his right cheek, the same spot where he shed that tear for his mother the other day.
Peter whispered in Morty’s ear, “I need to come see you.”
Morty replied, “At your convenience.”
CHAPTER THREE
LIFE MARCHES ON
Wednesday, August 30, 1995
Benjamin Davis got off the elevator on the eighth floor, where he’d practiced law for almost twenty years in what had been the shoe department of the old Steine’s Department Store. As he walked down the corridor, he glanced down in the oak-framed ankle-high mirrors and noticed his shoes needed a shine. The brass plaque to the right of the door read Benjamin Davis, Attorney at Law.
Despite his wife Liza’s protests for his safety, he still arrived at work around 6:00 a.m. Although the physical scars from his 1993 beating were barely visible, the emotional scars remained. Liza still worried because T-rex was still out there. She wished he’d wait until the office building was bustling to begin his day, but Davis refused. He loved the quiet of those first three hours. He was also pretty stubborn.
Reception was empty so he went straight to the kitchen. He spied two chocolate cupcakes on the counter, and he wolfed the first one down without even removing it from the wrapper. He stared hard at the second. These were somebody’s snack, but he was the boss, so what the hell! He decided to eat the second one a little slower to savor the taste. He struggled with his weight, but the reason why was no mystery: too much food and no exercise. That was another subject that Liza focused on. She was a nurse and knew what the extra fifty pounds were doing to him. He’d deal with his weight tomorrow.
Yesterday Bella Rosario, his longtime secretary, had set the timer on the coffee maker for him. He grabbed a cup of black coffee and jumped right into one of the piles of papers on his desk.
By seven, almost all of the staff had arrived. Bella manned the reception room, while Sammie, Davis’s niece and a first-year associate and a Vanderbilt Law School student, was hard at work writing an appellate brief for her uncle. Davis had great expectations for his brother’s daughter.
She’d arrived in Nashville via Miami, three years earlier, a freshly minted paralegal and a party girl. She’d been initiated by fire into the firm as she spent her initial tenure working on the Plainview cases. That experience motivated her to go to Vanderbilt Law School. She’d finished her first year in May while continuing to work for her uncle’s law firm.
She was having some difficulty in recent weeks balancing her commitment to school and to work. She missed a few classes, rationalizing that she was blessed with the best teacher of all, Morty. He gave her the practical application of the law. He also taught her to love the law despite all its shortcomings.
She selected classes in the afternoon and at night, so her mornings were free to work. She had a full and busy life, unfortunately with no time for romance.
She’d changed not only intellectually but physically as well. Her girlish ponytail was gone, replaced with a stylish short cut. With the help of her aunt Liza there’d been a total wardrobe metamorphosis. At the law firm, tight jeans and sweaters were replaced with expensive business attire courtesy of Davis’s American Express Card. He was a willing accomplice. Sammie was a beautiful and strong woman, and she projected that image. Clients couldn’t ignore her even if they wanted to. Through hard work she’d become an intricate part of the Davis team.
This morning every member of the team had arrived except the most senior member, Morty Steine. Morty was fast asleep on the ninth floor, where he maintained a loft apartment right above the eighth-floor offices. For more than fifty years Morty had been a nationally recognized attorney practicing out of the old Steine’s Department Store building, where Davis currently operated his law office. Davis had worked with Morty for twenty years, starting as his three-dollar-an-hour law clerk, then his associate, partner, and finally boss. The substitution of authority had been seamless. Davis totally respected the old man, and Morty was self-confident enough that he no longer needed the aura of authority and control. The men truly loved each other; there was no room for them to get closer.
Morty arrived about ten, visited with his co-workers, and then took an early lunch. He’d slowed down quite a bit, but when needed, he still had what it took. Davis often admitted to himself as well as others that Morty was why he was the lawyer he’d become.
Morty once ruled the office,
smoking his illegal Cuban cigars wherever he damn well pleased. They were eight inches long, and he made one last most of the day, chewing on the stub. Doctor’s orders and his heart condition dictated that he stop smoking. In defiance of his cardiologist, John Caldwell, Davis’s father-in-law, he still chewed his Cubans but never lit them. He was now relegated to smoking small cigarillos and hiding in his loft bathroom, blowing the smoke into the exhaust vent. Davis and the rest of the staff hounded him to stop his one pleasure. Morty was constantly cranky for lack of nicotine.
Davis buzzed Bella. “My calendar indicates that my first appointment is Valerie Daniels. You must have made this appointment when I was in court late yesterday. Did she tell you why she needed to see me?”
“No, she didn’t. Remember, her father died recently. You missed the funeral because you were in the Kane trial. I suspect she has some questions about his estate.”
“Pull her father’s Last Will and Testament, so I can answer her questions.”
Davis went back to one of the files on his desk. Before he knew it, Valerie Daniels was walking into his office. They took a seat in the teal blue leather chairs at the mahogany conference table, which took up most of Davis’s private office. Bella offered the client a coffee or a soft drink, which she declined.
Daniels was not only a client but also an old friend. She was slightly younger than Davis, but they shared many of the same friends. They also knew each other through Morty, who was politically connected to Daniels’s father, the late senator. She was also in public service. She’d been the superintendent for the Nashville school system, its administrative head, for the last eight years. Before that she was a high school principal. The Daniels family was part of the Old South, and Valerie was a real lady with an eloquent voice.
She said, “Sorry I missed your 4th of July barbeque, Ben. We were in Washington, visiting Daddy. I can’t believe he’s gone. My life has been bedlam.”
Davis, a transplanted New Yorker, was amused by her pronunciation of the words bedlam and barbeque. He responded in his own equally heavy accent, “My condolences, Valerie. I missed your daddy’s funeral because I was in court. Liza represented our family. She told me it was a beautiful service. You’d be proud to know that Judge Wise interrupted our trial with a moment of silence. He mentioned that your daddy nominated him for his appointment to the federal bench. I was impressed that the governor ordered that the flags be brought to half-mast in his honor. He was a great public servant.”
“You knew Daddy. He didn’t do anything in a small way.”
Senator Burton Eden last year had been elected to a fourth term as the senior U.S. senator for Tennessee. Davis and Morty had campaigned for and financially contributed to his re-election. Burt and Morty had been friends about fifty years, both yellow dog Democrats.
Daniels came to the point, “I’ve been going over Daddy’s accounts. He left Mom broke. The man was a charmer but not much of a businessperson.”
Davis was aware that her father was in desperate financial shape. Several months earlier he’d met with the senator and referred him to a bankruptcy attorney to consider his options.
“Valerie, have you found your father’s will? I have a photocopy here if you haven’t.”
“I’ve read it. He left everything to Mom, but it’s still nothing. I’ve totaled his debts, more than $500,000.”
Davis knew he needed to shoot straight with Daniels. There was no point in sugarcoating the truth. “Your daddy may have mismanaged his finances, but he wasn’t a fool. Your mom isn’t liable for any of those debts, and the house and the farm are in her name only. Despite the demands of your father’s creditors, I wouldn’t let your mother guarantee any of his debts. Then there’s the insurance.”
“What insurance?”
Davis smiled and, with one of his piercing blue eyes, gave his client a knowing wink. “Your daddy had three life insurance policies. One in the amount of $500,000 that named your mother as beneficiary, and two others, each in the amount of $200,000, that named you as beneficiary and you as trustee for your sister, Robyn. Your daddy knew that Robyn would need help managing her money and wanted you to manage it for her. I’m actually the substitute trustee if you’re unable or unwilling to serve.”
“Let me get this straight. Daddy’s creditors get nothing. Mom gets the house and the three hundred and fifty acres free and clear and the life insurance proceeds of $500,000. I get $200,000 for myself and manage another $200,000 for Robyn.”
“That sums it up.”
Davis assured her that no paperwork was necessary regarding the house and farm. “We’ll have to send a death certificate to the insurance companies. The money should be here in less than two weeks. I’ll have to probate your daddy’s estate to get rid of the creditors.”
“Ben Davis, I love you.”
“I have that effect on most women, but don’t tell Liza.”
Davis turned serious, which was his intent. He asked her, “Have you thought of who might finish out the five-year balance of your father’s term? You know, by law, his replacement is appointed by the governor.”
“Why would that be my concern?”
“Because, my dear, you should finish his term.”
“You’re out of your mind. I’m not qualified.”
“Like hell you’re not. You’ve watched your father first in the House of Representatives and then in the Senate for the last nineteen years. You’re a capable administrator, and you’ve been managing hundreds of people and dealing with unions. Your daddy’s staff will help you. You’ve got their loyalty. If the governor appoints someone else, then they’re probably out of a job. Anyone else would bring in his or her own staff.”
Davis could tell that despite her protest Daniels was interested. Why not?
She looked thoughtful and said, “How would I get Governor Clark’s consideration? He was close with Daddy, but we haven’t spoken in years.”
Davis expected the question and was prepared. “The men for the job are Morty Steine and Dr. Peter Nichols. Morty still knows everyone in the party, and Peter went to Vanderbilt with Governor Clark. They were fraternity brothers. Peter knows where all the skeletons are buried and has been a financial supporter. Between the two of them, they can get you the job. They’ll make a perfect team.”
Davis gave Daniels a moment to digest the information. He jarred her with his next question: “Are there any skeletons in your closet? We might as well address them on the front end.”
That was an important question, and Daniels needed to be candid and truthful for his idea to work.
After a long minute, she responded, speaking slowly and softly, “My marriage to Bill is solid. Both my kids have stayed out of trouble. There’s just one big problem, my sister, Robyn. She’s got serious addiction problems. Drugs, alcohol, promiscuity, you name it.”
She explained that Robyn was currently touring as a backup singer with Hank Williams Jr. and that life on the road had taken a toll on her. Davis promised to try to help Daniels get Robyn off the road and into rehab.
They hugged, and Daniels left the office with a lighter step and a big smile. She hugged Sammie Davis as she passed her in the doorway.
Sammie walked into her uncle’s office with a perplexed look on her face.
Davis recognized her confusion and with a straight face remarked, “Just another satisfied customer.”
Davis and his niece spent the next hour discussing the appellate brief she was working on and other pending cases. Sammie brought new energy and enthusiasm to the Davis practice. As Davis pondered the growth of his niece, he knew she’d be his partner someday. But they needed to address the present.
He asked, “Has Morty showed up yet?”
“No, he’s still upstairs. Should I go rouse him?”
“Leave the old man alone. If we need him, and we will, we’ll know just where to find him. Just get that brief ready. Remember, it’s due day after tomorrow.”
Sammie walked out without
another word, and Davis sat there considering how best to solicit Morty’s help on the Daniels nomination. He knew his luncheon appointment would move the issue forward.
Davis walked four blocks to the Merchants restaurant on Broadway. Dr. Peter Nichols was waiting at their table with a glass of wine in front of him.
“Hi, Ben, can I order you a beer, a glass of wine, or an iced tea?”
A waiter in a white coat walked over.
“I’ll just have a glass of water with a lemon wedge,” Davis told him.
“Peter, I’m sorry about your mom, but Morty gave her a beautiful send-off.”
Nichols became emotional at even the mention of his mother. He quickly regained his composure and said, “Morty was superb. She’s in a much better place.”
He paused and changed the subject. “Thanks for meeting me for lunch. I need to talk to you about Albert. My brother’s dementia is getting worse. He’s becoming more and more dependent.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Peter. Your mother’s estate is in good shape, and Al’s in good hands in the Alzheimer’s unit at Pointer Place. He’ll get the progressive care he needs. You can feel good about the decisions you’ve made.”
“Then why do I feel so terrible?”
“Life isn’t easy sometimes. You just have to march on. You’ve got Helen and the kids, and as far as Al’s concerned, all you can do is try to do the right thing.”
Davis figured that his good friend and client needed a diversion, so he launched into his idea of filling Senator Eden’s Senate seat with his daughter. Peter listened, asked a few questions, and then threw his full support behind the goal.
As they were walking out the door of Merchants, Davis turned to Nichols and reminded him, “I’ll see you Saturday.”
