At first glance, the 1930s duplex on Curson Avenue appeared to have some charm, but unfortunately it had been remodeled in the late seventies. The lovely old vaulted ceilings had been desecrated with cottage cheese, and updated with whirling chrome ceiling fans. The kitchen was stippled in black, and the whole muddle was topped off with black-and-white vertical disco shades, I checked under the shag carpeting and luckily for me, the original hardwood floors were still intact. It would be some work, but it seemed like a quiet neighborhood, and I was desperate for a spot of sanctuary, a key to my own front door. With some spit and polish, a few plumes and tassels, I could turn a closet into a palace.
The first cozy night I was industriously scraping the cheese from the ceiling when I heard a stir of ouds and percussion instruments. The loud din overtook my new abode, completely drowning out my heavenly Mozart. In the morning I awoke to the sound of a spitting pressure cooker wafting a pungent aroma of pork, onions, cilantro, and garlic that permeated my entire apartment. I heard a clamor of shrill, Farsi-speaking voices, and peeked out my disco shades to see what the commotion was about. There they were, my new neighbors, dressed in heavy veils and hanging chunks of animal flesh off metal hooks in the backyard. With my freshly signed lease it looked like I’d be spending an aromatic year in little Iran.
I was down to my last three hundred dollars, and just in the nick of time I found employment working on scale models for the new Jurassic Park ride at Universal Studios. Before I met my husband Joseph, I had worked for a company called Landmark Entertainment. I did scenic painting for the King Kong ride at Universal’s theme park and designed props for the Busch Gardens attractions. I called my old boss at Landmark and he hired me over the phone.
I’d work all day, then come home and rip up heaps of sullied gold-shag carpeting, lugging the remnants down the stairs to the garbage. I wondered, “How did my life get down to this?”
My new job became a lot more interesting when a whimsical show designer arrived in my department. He looked like a young Robert Redford, with mischievous blue eyes and a blinding smile. I started getting up a half hour early just to get extra dolled up for work.
Ovid Pope was a forty-two-year-old teenager with a wondrous sense of adventure and a shared love of natural beauty.
On our first date he wowed me with his wondrous artwork. There was one particular piece he called “The Dancing Fairies.” It was a ring of tiny delicate fairies with flickering wings that looked real. They jumped, flew, and bowed in continuous circular motion. I’d never seen anything so beautiful. He later took me hiking by his house in the hills of Silver Lake, introducing me to ancient macadamia trees and fields of purple lupine. I smelled the essence of native sage crushed from his fingertips, and we lunched on wild pomegranates while sitting on a bluff overlooking the balmy glen. While watching him divide the crimson red pomegranate with his Boy Scout pocketknife, I thought, “This is my kind of man.”
In three short months I had found a new boyfriend and inspiring employment, and turned my Hollywood apartment into shabby chic haven. I’d become accustomed to my neighbors’ resonant Eastern music recitals, and even gotten used to the persistent scent of garlic wafting up through my windows. But when summer arrived my apartment was like an Indian sweat lodge. While fanning myself in front of my fridge to cool off, I thought, “What I really need is a place with central air, and a nice cool pool.”
A month earlier, Heather and Roger Daltrey had been visiting Los Angeles and stayed at a stunning mountaintop home in Beverly Hills. The retreat sat on the tip-top of a secluded private drive, and from the back garden swimming pool there was a clear view of downtown Los Angeles, all the way to Catalina Island. I remember thinking, “Wow, I would just love to live here.”
The estate belonged to John Paul DeJoria, chief and ruler of the renowned Paul Mitchell Systems hair products. As it turned out, his former property manager had recently taken leave, and he was looking for a replacement. I didn’t know it at the time, but Roger had recommended me for the position. When John Paul’s wife, the Southern blond beauty Eloise called to ask if I’d be interested in the job, I was amazed. It was just yesterday that I had asked the heavens for a place with a pool, and here it was. My job was coordinating the workers and gardeners, and to arrange fresh flowers when guests came to visit. The position included the upstairs residence, with full use of the pool and wooded gardens. John Paul handed me the keys to his home, and I didn’t see or speak with him again till the holidays, when I received an invitation to his annual Christmas party. It was actually more than a mere party; it was an extravagant Renaissance costume ball held at his Malibu fortress. I procured a vintage Elizabethan gown, and after adjusting the plume in my bonnet and stuffing the billowing hoopskirt and petticoats into the front seat of my car, I was off to the palace.
The whimsical cast of Cirque du Soleil was performing in the manicured gardens, and they greeted the guests in their ethereal style. Wolfgang Puck, clad in chef whites, presided over an elegant spread of Christmas delicacies, and Rod Stewart had taken the stage in the main room. I’ve been to some pretty amazing places in my life, but this night was one of the grandest.
The most extraordinary part of taking care of John Paul’s Beverly Hills estate was that not a soul lived in the house except me. Once or twice a year, one of the DeJorias’ celebrated friends would camp out for a few days, but otherwise I had the entire hill completely to myself. Besides the generous annual invitations, John Paul also supplied me with cases of his luxurious Paul Mitchell conditioners, sprays, and more shampoo than I could lather up in a lifetime. Knowing John Paul was like having my own angel. Living in his hilltop heaven allowed me the time to think of what I really wanted to do. It was in this stunning little eagle’s nest that I found the inspiration and had the opportunity to begin writing.
I hadn’t spoken with my father since I’d returned California. Now that I’d settled in, I thought it would be nice to invite him up to my grand new quarters for Thanksgiving. Over the next month I left several messages, but then got a recording saying his number had been disconnected. That’s weird, I thought. Where the heck was he? I had his attorney’s number; surely he’d know where to find him. I’d always thought my dad’s lawyer was a bit of a joker but had had no idea to what depths he would descend.
I called and asked, “Hello, Mr. S. My dad’s number has been disconnected; do you know where he is? Has he moved?
Mr. S seemed uncomfortable and stiffly replied, “Your father is dead.”
Oh my God, my heart started to thump out of my chest.
“When did he die?”
“About two months ago.”
Then there was a silence; I was utterly stunned. “Why didn’t anyone call me?’
He said he didn’t have my number, although it was listed. I had so many questions.
“Where did he die? What from? When was his funeral? Was he buried as a Mason, as he requested?
S. said he had died in the hospital from sepsis. I asked if he’d been on life support, and the attorney said my father had declined it.
I started to ask questions: “Why were you at the hospital in Palm Springs? What about Dad’s belongings? His home in Rancho Mirage?” I wanted to go down there. S. stopped me short, telling me that my father’s property belonged to him and his wife now, that my father left everything to his wife in his will.
Was he insane? I’d seen my father’s will: I knew where he kept it. As I was his daughter and only acknowledged survivor, he’d left his entire estate to me. I’d even gone with him to this lawyer’s office when he signed the document. I asked, “So you’re saying I can’t even go to my father’s house?”
“That’s right.” He seemed to gloat, but told me that he had saved some of the family photo albums if I wanted them.
Besides the shock of learning that my father was dead, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I inquired, “What about my dad’s model airplane collection?”
“Yeah,
I think they’re still hanging up; you can have ’em.” This guy was dead serious; I was about to be screwed. I asked, “Should I get my own counsel?”
“I can’t advise you on that,” he muttered, “It’s up to you; but you’ve been left ten percent of the residue. I should tell you, however, there’s a clause in the will that states that if you try to contest it, you lose your ten percent and only get one dollar.”
I had to ask, “Did you draft this will?”
But of course he had.
With all the Vicodin abuse and years of boozing, my poor old dad was an easy mark, and I imagine young Mr. S., was counting on the apple not falling far from the tree. He probably assumed I was some powerless hippie-dippy from Hollywood, an aimless airhead without a clue about how to defend myself, but he was so wrong. I’d already been cheated out of a childhood, a family, and an education. I wasn’t about to let a stranger take away my inheritance as well.
At 8:00 A.M. I was at the Riverside County Courthouse, poring over my dad’s last will and testament. Not only had the new will left everything to Mrs. S., there was also a bequest of twenty thousand dollars to S.’s mother-in-law. His wife’s mother! I assumed my father had never even met her! The pièce de résistance was my father’s signature on the will. To me it looked like a clear forgery, but how was I going to prove it? There were some other interesting documents as well. I noticed that S. had filed papers the day my father died, giving his wife access to my dad’s property and bank accounts. I needed an attorney fast.
I employed Ovid, my new beau, to take a little trip with me down to Palm Springs. I was going to my father’s home, whether S. liked it or not, and I wasn’t a day too soon. My dad’s belongings had been picked over and cleaned out. There were two twenty-foot Dumpsters outside the house, overflowing with a life’s worth of possessions.
Ovid gave me a boost up, and I fell into the tangled heap of discarded memories. It seemed so tragic, but every now and then I’d dig up a little treasure that made the Dumpster dive worth it. My heart felt sick when I found a crumpled duffel bag containing my dad’s cherished white racing suit. I later found his crash helmet, with his name and gold wings flanking the sides. I remembered my dad being quite a handsome sight in his racing gear. I found the rosary I’d given him last Christmas, and the only surviving picture of my grandparents. There were loads of family photos, including one of me that he had kept on his nightstand, but the glass had been smashed in the jumble. I dug my way to the bottom and was saddened to find the shattered plastic remains of my dad’s fragile World War II model planes that he’s assembled and painted when he was just a boy. How in God’s name had my father let this man into his life? Now I was left to deal with the snake.
I met with several lawyers, thinking my case was an obvious slam-dunk and clearly unjust, but nobody would touch it without a ten thousand dollar retainer. It occurred to me that that was just what the opposition was counting on. Plus, it seemed attorneys don’t like to do battle with their own. There was also the huge matter of a document called a Certificate of Independent Review, which S. claimed to have in his possession. A Certificate of Independent Review was put into law to stop unscrupulous lawyers from taking advantage of elderly, incapacitated clients. If a client wanted to leave a gift of cash or property to their attorney, their will would have to be independently reviewed and signed by a separate, nonaffiliated law office in order to make the gift valid. Most attorneys steer clear of gifts even to their spouses, as it tends to put them in an unfavorable spotlight.
I tracked down the lawyer who allegedly reviewed my father’s last will and testament. He had a questionable history. He’d been suspended from the bar twice, and had two long pages of fraud complaints. Things were looking up. If he hadn’t reviewed the will, S. didn’t stand a chance. Even if he had, his integrity could be challenged. After several unanswered calls, he finally surfaced and said he had no recall of meeting with my father, even when told he was a transsexual, a character not easily forgotten. My dad would have shown up in full drag, as the document was made out in his female alias. The story was getting cheesier by the second. Meanwhile, S. had closed my dad’s bank accounts and was readying his home for sale.
I found an estate lawyer in Palm Springs who was highly amused with my story and agreed to take my case for a five thousand dollar retainer and 33 percent of the estate or 40 percent if we went to trial. It felt like highway robbery, but time was running out. I wasn’t about to let a stranger rob me.
I called Roger Daltrey in England and told him of my predicament, and without a question, he FedExed me a check for five thousand the very next day.
The lawyer I hired had practiced probate law for almost fifty years and seemed pretty well versed. Unfortunately, he wasn’t exactly a pit bull in this arena. On my request, he did have the will analyzed for forgery, and according to the specialist, the signature was fraudulent. My lawyer’s forte was estate planning, not criminal investigation. I ended up doing all the legwork, and he filed the legal documents.
In the beginning S. didn’t take me seriously; he was pompous and smug and refused to hand over any financial accounts of my father’s estate. Eventually, we got access to some records. As it turned out, S. had deposited some of the money into accounts he could access. And he was tooling around in my dad’s Cobra! He was even paying his legal expenses with money from the estate.
It had been an arduous year, but my judicial efforts hadn’t been in vain. I was about to have my day in the courtroom.
My old comrades Patti D’Arbanbville and Miss Pamela rallied to my cause. Patti flew in from New York, and Pamela, who had just had her face cosmetically lasered to raw pulp, were coming to give testimony.
We opted to ride in Ovid’s Volvo station wagon, thinking it would be more spacious for the journey, but halfway through the scorching desert, the air conditioner conked out. It was 113 degrees in the shade, and Miss Pamela’s poor face was a red as a sliced tomato. She had it saturated in antibiotic ointment, and it looked like it was about to melt. We sang every Beatles song we knew to keep our brains off the blistering heat, but there was no comfort in sight, just miles of barren, blanched landscape.
When we got to our hotel all four of us jumped in the pool like a pack of giddy teenagers; we had made it!
The trial was hanging heavily over my head. I’d explored and researched every avenue I could think of. There was no way I wouldn’t win, but what if I lost? I tried to look on the bright side; I’d been given a free crash course in probate law and had gotten pretty proficient in math. It was like a wily game of chess, merely a matter of who did their homework, who played the better game, and who knew how best to slip through the slippery loopholes. It was a separate, exact language only to be defined in the Black’s Law Dictionary; there was nothing fair or just about it.
My attorney was admirable, decent chap, but he was getting on in age and I wasn’t sure he was tough enough to stand up to the squirrelly resistance. I assumed S. was a dirty fighter and would go in for the kill. Walking into the courtroom, seeing the assemblage of somber suits, I had an amazing epiphany. With my incessant perseverance, I had single-handedly created this moment. All these strangers had gotten out of bed this morning and were in this courtroom because I was alive. As seemingly impossible as it was, I had made it happen.
First up was the question of the independent review. The lawyer in question had no recollection, notes, or payment in regards to his supposed meeting with my father, nor did he recognize the many photos he was shown. He did remember that it was his birthday and that he was out of town on that date. He was in a sticky position. He agreed it was his signature on the document, but if he hadn’t met with my dad, which he clearly had not, he could face being disbarred. He ended his testimony saying, “As it is my signature, I must have performed the review.”
During his testimony I frantically scribbled notes to my attorney with questions I wanted him to ask in his cross-examination. This was the crux of my
case; I wanted it to be categorically clear that he and my father had never met, but he shushed me away, whispering, “I know what I’m doing.”
I was bursting with frustration. On one hand the guy was admitting he was out of town, he couldn’t have met my father, but to save his skin he had to say he had fulfilled his duty. Something shady was going on; his story just didn’t jive. When the double-dealer was dismissed from the witness stand, I knew that not nailing him would come back to bite me.
It was my turn on the stand, the moment I’d been waiting for. At last I could tell my story of injustice, and the duplicity of it all, but it was nothing like I imagined. While it started out well, when it came time for cross-examination, I was only permitted to respond yes or no to questions carefully crafted to make me look like a heartless wench of a daughter. S. also had a little surprise tucked neatly in his sleeve. After my father died, this snake painstakingly searched through all of dad’s correspondence, confiscating every letter and card I’d ever sent him. He pored over every word, artfully highlighting in golden yellow any line, word, or sentence that could be misconstrued or taken out of context. Out of a tender two-page letter, he’d emphasize fragments such as, “I’m sorry you’re upset that I moved to New York.” Then he insisted I read only the highlighted lines aloud. I refused to be railroaded. Despite his boisterous objections, I defused his ambush by continuing to read my words in their entirety. When that ambush didn’t work, he tried to further discredit me by blurting, “Your honor, I don’t think her parents were even married.”
It seemed this creep had a personal vendetta against me. Even if my parents hadn’t been married, did that mean he should inherit my family’s estate? Not if I could help it.
S.’s wife was next on the hot seat. She actually admitted barely knowing my father. When asked how she felt about his sexual transformation she replied, “It was an abomination against God.”
I wondered if she realized what she was saying, the importance of her testimony. Why would my father bequeath almost a million dollars to someone he hardly knew and who deemed him an abomination?
Dandelion; Memoir Of A Free Spirit Page 18
