by Una Tiers
At the probate clerk’s office, I ordered the guardianship file. It wasn’t available, meaning it was in the court room or making its way back after a hearing.
Really since I didn’t know what to look for in the file, the absence wasn’t meaningful.
Later I realized I should have checked when the next court date was scheduled. But coincidence filled the gap for me.
Chapter Eight
It delighted and disappointed me when Meghan sent a deposit on account with the fee agreement (signed with her name and not Minnie Mouse). Dismissing predator feelings, I prepared the court papers to open the estate.
The package she sent included many documents including the judge’s drivers license, birth certificate, and change of name papers that showed that the judge had her name legally changed to R. Etapage. What objection did she have to Ruth Page?
There was a copy of a letter from the Chief Judge (top banana) addressed to the family in general, expressing his condolences and requesting the return of her keys to the office at Daley Center. It was dated the day after the judge died.
Apparently she got into the condo. I hope she had the locks changed.
Changing the locks on a house or condo in probate is a weird issue that many of my client’s resist. They regard the cost as a wholly unnecessary deduction from their pocket by force and chicanery. They think I recommend it because I am rolling in dough or have stock in key companies. They also have a nutty idea that someone without the right to enter the house would stop because the owner was dead. They wouldn’t do something horrible because it was morally wrong.
One horror story of the executor not changing the locks included the grandsons cleaning out all of grandma’s furniture while the remainder of the family was at her funeral.
Another was a variation on a theme. The neighbor, friend, realtor, cousin or other third person had the keys and claim they were promised a particularly valuable piece of furniture by the decedent. While factually questionable, these purported gifts need to be supported by documentation such as a will. It was probably a mere coincidence that the moving of the property was done under the cover of night, sometimes at 3 AM.
The mortgage documents and bank statement from the judge’s condo suggested the estate was solvent unless the bills were big surprise. From the numbers we had, I estimated Meghan would inherit at least fifty thousand dollars, but I didn’t plan on telling her.
The claims period, the time the creditors have to come forward is relatively short (six months) from the lawyer’s viewpoint, but unbearably long from the standpoint of beneficiaries. These are the same group of people who are surprised to learn the final bills of the decedent have to be paid before they get any inheritance.
While my estimate wasn’t shabby, I knew Meghan expected a lot more, maybe enough to retire to the south of France on a villa.
The case was routine until David Giovanni, a Chicago Police Detective walked into my office.
We stared at one another for what seemed like days.
He stepped inside, closed the door, hung his jacket on the back of a client chair and sat down. All the while, my heart rate was increasing and I was guessing what he would say.
“Ms. Gavelle, I’m here because Meghan Page filed a complaint with the police department alleging her mother, Judge R. Etapage was murdered. She gave your name as the attorney handling the probate case,” he finished, a little out of breath.
Business. He was here on business. That’s how we got together before. When the business ended, he disappeared.
He still made my heart flutter. When he looked me in the eye, well eyes, I have two, he blushed.
I issued orders to my brain to not listen to my heart.
“Murdered,” I repeated while foolishly admiring his big brown eyes. I tried, without success to use deep breathing to try to slow my heart rate.
As we were pondering, likely both uncomfortable with echoes of the past, the phone rang. Meghan’s voice came through the speaker on the answering machine, slurred, saying that they had killed her mother and were going to pay. She was calling a very prominent personal injury lawyer to handle the matter.
I looked to David for a reaction or opinion, but he only shrugged.
The detective and I have a little other history. He ended up being my first date, post divorce, although he doesn’t know. He was first in another area, again, he doesn’t know. Although we seemed to have that chemistry people talk about on daytime soaps, our relationship, if it could rise to that level, was certainly non-traditional. It was much less than I was hoping for, ala romance novels.
“So what happened?” I finally asked.
“She had a toxic dose of medication in her system. There was also an issue of asphyxiation.”
“Suffocation?”
He nodded, “There were pillow fibers in her nose.”
A slight shudder ran down my spine. “What was the cause of death?”
“So far it’s undetermined.”
“Was there an autopsy?”
“Yeeees,” he hesitated. “Do you want to hear what’s in it?” He asked slowly, “I remember autopsies being too graphic for you and I don’t want to….”
“No, you’re right, just give me the highlights.” I appreciated his memory and wondered if it meant anything in the larger scheme of love and life.
“If I were to abridge it for a squeamish person,” he started with a grin, “I would say there was a large dose of pain killer in her system, unexplained bruising on her arms and legs and pillow fibers in her nose.”
“And the daughter didn’t contact you until after she received the autopsy?”
“Right, she came in and filed a report that her mother was murdered yesterday. But in her statement she said the nursing home was responsible for her death.”
“Wouldn’t that be negligence if it was against the facility?” I asked, unable to make a differentiation.
“She wasn’t clear, so we’re investigating. Maybe she has two issues, one of any negligence of the nursing home and another charging a person with murder,” he offered.
“Maybe there was a mix-up with her medicine?”
He smiled at me. “Fiona, you always want it to be a mistake, never murder, even though you know better from experience.” He looked apologetic and melted my disposition to avoid him romantically. I had to chide myself to be practical, uncertain if I would listen to my own sound advice.
After a few seconds, he added, “But that’s a good point, I’ll check whether or not she was prescribed Travanex.”
“What did you say travanex is for?” I asked.
“I think it’s a pain killer.”
“Could it be suicide?”
“Anything’s possible, we’re just starting the investigation. But if she committed suicide, the pillow fibers wouldn’t be present.”
“No, I guess not,” I agreed.
“David, did Meghan tell you she hired a personal injury lawyer?”
“Yes.” He answered looking down at the floor.
“Did she give you a name?” I asked turning my head trying to catch his eye.
“No, only that it was a very high roller.”
My suspicions were that Meghan expected a windfall of inheritance. Her disappointment made her think of other avenues of collecting an obscene amount of money.
Personal injury claims are not uncommon when a person dies, even if the death was due to natural causes. Some think this is an element of grieving, I see it as greed.
“Was she drunk when you met with her David?”
“I didn’t meet with her, but the notes suggested that at least she had a drink before coming in to talk to us.” After a few seconds, he added with a conciliatory tone, “It isn’t unusual for people to have a drink before they come in to talk to the police. But, you didn’t hear me say that.”
“Did she say why she waited so long to contact you? Her mother died two weeks ago.”
“It’s hard to tell. She seems to b
e a little unusual.”
When he didn’t make eye contact, I knew David was holding something back.
He drew a deep breath. He was shifting gears.
“Fiona,” he said with a much softer voice, “there’s something else we should talk about.” He leaned forward. Now he was doing the deep breathing I did earlier in our conversation.
I interrupted him to change the topic, “David, how old was she?”
Seeing the look on his face, I felt bad, rude and insensitive. But, I didn’t want to go where I failed before. He was here for business. The personal issue had failed.
“Fifty four.” David whispered, mesmerizing me to near inertia.
“What was a fifty-four year old doing in a nursing home?” For a minute I thought the judge was much older but that wouldn’t be consistent with Meghan’s age. Was Meghan adopted? Where did my impression come from?
“That’s a little confusing. Her medical chart notes say she was having knee replacement surgery. But the autopsy didn’t mention it. Recent surgeries are usually part of an autopsy, especially if the patient died in a hospital. But there was facial surgery listed….”
“You mean a face lift?” I interrupted, intrigued.
“Not in those words, the chart notes talked about reconstructive surgery, but there are records that are inconsistent and we’re waiting for the medical examiner to review them. We’re also waiting for more records to come in.”
I pondered, trying to fit the puzzle pieces together. Sure, I was looking for an easy answer.
“I’ll tell you this, the bruises seemed consistent with a beating. Someone was very angry with her,” he added.
“Is that usual? I mean to go into a rehab facility after plastic surgery?” Unfortunately my knowledge of plastic surgery was based on old black and white movies where the heroine or witness to a crime has the surgery under an assumed name and then goes home with bandages and recovers to look completely different before the film ends.
“I don’t know, but I’ll check it out,” he answered. “It might have something to do with insurance.”
“How would that work?” I asked.
“I don’t know, we’re just starting to look at loose ends.”
His face was all scrunched up, and he had the nerve to still look good.
“Fiona, did you know this judge?”
“No, Judge Curie needed a ride and I went to the funeral with him.” The weirdness of my own behavior made me smile.
“And he recommended you to the family?”
“Of course.”
“Was it a political funeral?” David asked.
“No,” I explained the small crowd. “Not even the probate judges, other than Curie, were there.”
At least he missed my picture in the newspaper.
“Did Meghan say anything about injuries when she identified her body?” I asked.
“The daughter didn’t identify the body. The man who did listed himself as her husband, Alan. Later we learned she was divorced from a man named Carl.”
“Could it have been the boyfriend?”
“Carlos,” David smiled lasciviously and raised one eyebrow.
While I tried not to laugh, I failed.
“Does Carlos live at the condo?” I asked while I shifted in my chair.
“We tried to interview him at the condo. He said he was on the way to an appointment with his dentist and made a time to come to the station. He didn’t show up and isn’t at the condo now.
We ran him through the Secretary of State’s office and he doesn’t have a driver’s license or a car registered in his name.”
“Did you get a telephone number?”
“The cell phone number he gave us was disconnected.”
“I’m curious, was his name on the bell or mailbox?”
“I’ll check that out Fiona.” He stared too personally for my comfort zone.
“Did the boyfriend visit her at the nursing home David?”
“We haven’t checked, but will. He isn’t a person of interest. At least we don’t see anything he gains by her death. Nothing monetary anyway. But I’ll check if there is a forwarding address on him.”
“Some nursing homes have sign in books in the lobby.”
“Good to know, thanks.” He asked, “Do you give identification?”
“No.” I thought about what a liar I am, sometimes without a reason at all. One of my eccentricities is to sign only my first name and visitor as my last name when I go to see a client in a nursing home.
“But isn’t it a little odd that he didn’t go to the funeral?”
“We didn’t know that, and yes it’s odd,” David replied. “We were called in to investigate yesterday.”
He smiled at me.
“Do you have any theories this soon David?”
“Our position is that we are investigating what could be a murder.”
“Do you know how much she had of the Travanex?”
“About six or seven times the usual dose.”
“So how did she get bruised? Maybe she fell?”
“We don’t have the answer yet. But, something is off here.” David spoke slowly.
Chapter Nine
Meghan signed and returned the probate documents in record time. She enclosed an additional five hundred dollar money order. Oddly this was from a woman who said she had no money with which to advance fees or costs.
I made quick work of filing the papers, paying fees and getting our calendar assignment for court.
As a rule, new probate cases are opened on the ten AM court call. The judge reviews the paperwork and signs two orders and we are authorized to begin administration.
But this case was for a dead judge, so there was a political element of privacy. After I set the case on the 10 AM call, I received a message from a court clerk, to come in any afternoon that was convenient.
So the new case was opened, like my other celebrity case, at a quiet two PM hearing when no one was around to appreciate my legal prowess.
The judge didn’t come into the court room, instead the clerk took the papers back to offices (judge caves) behind the courtrooms while I waited. Five minutes later he returned with a smile and proceeded to stamp my copies.
“Counsel, we have the papers boxed up from the judge’s office. Her daughter asked that they be sent to you. Is that okay?” Alan was without doubt, the cutest clerk in probate, and he had nice manners.
“Of course,” I answered with the graciousness of a new recipient of an Emmy.
I had to double back to ask a follow-up question. “Was paperwork all the judge had in her office?”
“Yes two or three boxes full.”
When I returned from court, I found an enormous box in the middle of my desk, but it wasn’t the stuff from the judge’s office. It was shipped from a copy service addressed to Meghan Page in my care. Inside were the medical records for the late judge.
Feeling as if I was doing something wrong, I closed the door and opened the box out of morbid curiosity. The records were mostly chronological and mostly illegible. Still, I poked through about an inch of them from the nursing home.
Daily nursing notes are not fascinating. You have to be able to read chicken scratch, I thought I read ‘car access’,’ nokey (sic) distress’, ‘construction animals’, ‘scary bats’ and other things that made no sense other than to amuse me in the guessing process.
Why Meghan had the records sent to my office was an unanswered question.
As I replaced the documents, I noticed the stamp on the records read ‘Know Acres Rehabilitation and Nursing Facility in Wilmette, Illinois.’
Chapter Ten
While I continued reading about guardianship, I couldn’t seem to develop a perspective, pattern or strategy. There weren’t any cases to point me in the direction of helping Eddy. Andrew answered a few of my less dumb questions. Since we are newer friends, I felt I needed to limit my intrusions on his time.
My understanding was that i
f people were really impaired at decision making, the court took away many of their rights. It’s serious business since the right to vote, drive and manage your money are at issue. It includes the right to decide where you live, what you wear and what you eat.
This didn’t fit with what I saw in Eddy.
My stereotype for a person in guardianship court was someone who was helpless and in need of assistance left and right. The same stereotype applied to someone in a nursing home. Foolishly I assumed they were bedbound and fed by intravenous tubes.
Eddy walked and talked and hid papers inside his shirt. How could any judge not understand that he was okay?
Of course I don’t know what I’m talking about most of the time.
Eddy was happy to see me, and we exchanged weather talk before business.
He said the weather had become news because he hadn’t been outside since he came to Know Acres. He wasn’t allowed to go for a walk down the block or to the lunch outings organized by the activities director at Know Acres.
Despite his ‘incarceration’ he was pleasant. He would make a nice friend.
There was a music program in the library so we met in his room. He had a card table and chairs set up as well as a pad of paper with a long list of questions. There were two plastic glasses of ice water.
The door opened abruptly and bounced against the wall, startling us. An unhappy man in a cheap suit stormed in.
“You cannot talk to Mr. Szem,” he barked. His hair was thin and almost the same color as his scalp. His eyes were like onions. His voice was high pitched and just below a scream in volume.
I introduced myself.
Eddy pushed the pad of questions over to my side of the table and I slipped them under my papers.
“I’ve called the Wilmette Police Department,” the creepy man threatened. His voice was quivering.
Eddy tilted his head to the side and stared straight ahead at a spot on the wall.
