The Underground Man sw-3

by Parnell Hall

  Steve sighed. “All right. First of all, you don’t type it. You make it entirely in your own handwriting. And when I say entirely, I mean entirely. That is to say, you can’t use letterhead. You start with an entirely blank sheet of paper.”

  “Fine. What else?”

  “You use a pen, of course, for the entire document. You date it. You state your full name. You state that you are of sound mind and body. You state specifically that you revoke all prior wills. You state that this is your last will and testament. Then you state specifically how you wish to dispose of your property. This is where it gets tricky, and this is where you need a lawyer.”

  “Why?”

  “Because in most wills there are specific bequests and a residuary clause. Do you know what that means?”

  “Of course I do. Why is that tricky?”

  “Because the value of a person’s property may fluctuate. Which puts the beneficiary of the residuary clause at risk.”

  “How is that?”

  “Because the specific bequests are fixed, whereas the residuary clause isn’t. For example, suppose you had a hundred thousand dollars to leave. You make five bequests of ten thousand dollars each. Those people are going to get ten thousand dollars no matter what. Your beneficiary is going to get fifty thousand dollars by the residuary clause. Say before you die you suffer business losses and your property sinks to fifty thousand. Since the ten thousand dollars bequests are fixed, those five people get ten grand each, and your principal beneficiary gets nothing.”

  Walsh shook his head. “No, no. That’s not a problem. I understand all that, anyway. I don’t need a lawyer to help me with it. I make all my specific bequests, and then I say, all the rest, remainder and residue of my property I leave to blah, blah, blah. Right?”

  “That’s essentially right.”

  “Fine. What else do I have to do?”

  “If there’s anyone you wish to disinherit, don’t just omit them. Mention them by name and state that you are disinheriting them. ‘To Cousin Fred I leave nothing because he’s a schmuck,’ or words to that effect.”

  Walsh never cracked a smile. “What else?”

  “When you’ve finished all that, you sign your will. That’s the last thing you do. And sign it at the very bottom.”

  Walsh looked at him. “Why wouldn’t I sign it at the very bottom?”

  “You would and you should. That’s the place to do it.”

  “Then why do you even mention it?”

  “To make sure there’s no confusion. See, you already started the document, ‘I, so and so, being of sound mind and body,’ etc., etc. Since you are writing in longhand, some people might argue writing your name at the top in that manner constitutes a signature. Whether it does or not is a moot point if you simply sign it at the bottom. Also, signing it at the bottom verifies the fact that the will is indeed over, that there isn’t an additional page kicking around someplace that somehow got lost.”

  “Fine. Fine. So if I do all that, I’m set?”

  “You should be.”

  “And this will take precedence over the prior will, even though that will was prepared by lawyers and signed in the presence of witnesses?”

  “It should.”

  Walsh frowned. “Why do you say ‘should?’”

  Steve smiled. “Because anyone can hire a lawyer to argue anything. If the heirs named in the prior will want to contest the new one, they can. It doesn’t mean they can win, and if you follow the instructions I’ve given you exactly, they shouldn’t win. But if you want a hundred percent, dead certain, money-back guarantee, you must understand that there’s nothing in life that’s a sure thing.”

  “Yeah, yeah, sure,” Walsh said. “Protect your backside. But practically speaking, the handwritten will would be good?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I see,” Walsh said. He thought for a moment.

  “Was there something else?” Steve asked.

  “Yeah,” Walsh said. “Suppose there’s some delay?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, suppose the handwritten will isn’t found for a while?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  Walsh waved it away. “That’s not important. I’m saying what if. Suppose for some reason this handwritten will is misplaced. The lawyers produce the will they’ve drawn. It’s probated. People inherit. Then the new will is found.”

  Steve frowned. He looked at Walsh narrowly. “What’s your question?”

  “What would happen then? Would the new will take precedence? Would the old will be upset? Would the heirs have to give the money back?”

  Steve pursed his lips. “They might.”

  Now it was Walsh’s turn to frown. “Why do you say ‘might?’ It’s my understanding they would.”

  “Your understanding’s correct. And ordinarily they would. But …”

  “But what?”

  “You’d have a situation then. Be one hell of a legal dogfight.”

  “I know that. But who would win?”

  “The beneficiaries named in the handwritten will. Except for one thing. Collusion.” Steve shook his head. “Big problem, Mr. Walsh. If the beneficiaries named in the prior will are in a position to prove that the handwritten will was deliberately withheld, that it was planned that way, that they had been tricked into thinking they had inherited when they had in fact not, then they would have legal recourse. They would have a cause of action against you.”

  “I’d be dead.”

  “Against your estate. And if they were able to successfully sue your estate, reducing the amount that you have left to leave, they would be able to divert the money away from your beneficiary and into their own pockets just as effectively as if they had inherited under the old will.”

  “I see, I see,” Walsh said. “That’s all right. That’s not the case.”

  “Oh, isn’t it?” Steve said. “You come in here and ask me that specific question, I have to assume that that’s exactly the case.”

  Walsh grinned. “Yes, but you’re a lawyer. You don’t go blabbing everything you know. There’s a law of privileged communications, right? Everything I tell you is confidential. So, no problem. Collusion? What collusion? We’re talking hypothetically here.

  “So that’s it. If the will is entirely in my own handwriting and signed and dated and revokes all prior wills, I’m home free.” Walsh stood up. “Fine. What do I owe you?”

  Steve shook his head. “No charge. I didn’t do anything.”

  “I mean for the consultation.”

  Steve smiled. “No charge.”

  Walsh frowned irritably. “Of course there’s a charge. There’s no such thing as free advice. Free advice ain’t worth taking. If you give me free advice, then you’re a fool, and I’d be a fool to follow it. Here, let me see.”

  He pulled his overcoat aside and rummaged in his pants pocket. He pulled out a dirty, crumpled bill and laid it on the desk. “There,” he said. He rummaged in his pocket again, pulled out another crumpled bill, set that on the desk. “And there. Now we’re square. You get what you pay for. Now if you gave me bum advice and it don’t work out, you’ll feel bad. Of course, I’ll be dead, so I won’t know. But you’ll have to live with it.”

  Walsh nodded shortly. “Thanks for your time.”

  “Now wait a minute,” Steve said. “You can’t just ask for advice and then go running off and try applying it-”

  Walsh was already halfway to the door. Over his shoulder he said, “That’s what you think.”

  A few more steps and he was gone, slamming the door behind him.

  Steve looked after him, shook his head, and grinned at Tracy Garvin. “Son of a bitch,” he said. “What do you make of that?”

  Tracy shook her head. “What do I make of it? What do you make of it. Here’s a guy off the street, and you sit here talking to him about specific bequests and residuary beneficiaries as if he were just some normal client. I mean, what can he possibly have
that he wants to leave?”

  “I have no idea,” Steve said. “Whatever it is, I just hope he doesn’t get into trouble. A person who wants to get his law from a lawyer and then apply it to the facts himself is usually a fool. I just hope in his case it doesn’t make any difference.”

  Steve sighed and ran his hand over his head. “Well, Tracy, I’m afraid our two clients didn’t amount to much. The first case was a total washout, and the second earned us a whopping two bucks.”

  Tracy got up from her chair. “You want this written up?”

  “Oh, absolutely,” Steve said. “And duly reported to the IRS. I can’t wait till they see that one. ‘Consultation fee: two dollars.’”

  Tracy walked over to the desk, picked up the bills and smoothed them out. “Oh shit,” she said.

  Steve looked up. “What’s the matter?”

  “Your two-dollar fee.”

  “What about it?”

  Tracy smoothed the bills out and handed them over.

  They were hundred dollar bills.

  3

  Steve Winslow leaned back in his chair, put his feet up on his desk, and opened the New York Times. A former actor, Steve read the paper inside out, starting with the drama section. It was skimpy this morning- no articles, no reviews, mostly only movie ads. Steve moved on to the sports. The Knicks had won again. Not surprising-their first good season in years and they were on a roll. The Yankees were rumored to be about to make a managerial change. That was news? Hell, you could run the same column every six months.

  Steve sighed. Shit. Another day with nothing to do but read the paper. And just when he’d thought he had it made.

  For a while, Steve Winslow had been the most obscure lawyer in New York City. A lawyer with only one client who’d handled only one case. And handled it in such a way as to make himself look like an incompetent clown. Then the Marilyn Harding case had come along and changed all that. He’d made a splash in that one all right, right on the front page of the Daily News. It was sensational.

  Too sensational. He’d made a name for himself all right, and he had a law practice now. But it wasn’t a normal law practice. Because the type of publicity he got wasn’t the type that attracted your standard brand of client. It was the type that attracted mainly the undesirables and the kooks.

  And not in great numbers, either. Most days there were none. Some days there was one. Today there’d been two. Mr. Thorngood and Mr. Walsh.

  One undesirable and one kook.

  Steve sighed again, put the section of the paper down. So much for drama and sports. Time for the hard news. Pro-life protests, terrorists, and the budget deficit. Steve picked up the first section, opened the front page.

  Tracy Garvin came in the door. “Someone else to see you.”

  Steve folded the paper, kicked his feet off the desk and sat up. “You’re kidding.”

  Tracy smiled. “I know. It’s a deluge. Three in one day.”

  “Who is it?”

  “A Mr. Carl Jenson.”

  “What does he want?”

  “He wouldn’t say.”

  Steve grinned. “Again? You must be getting a complex.”

  “Not as long as you keep reading them the riot act when they try to throw me out.”

  “Never fear,” Steve said. “So what’s he like?”

  “He’s about thirty, medium height and build, brown hair, blue eyes.”

  “That’s a police description. How does he strike you?”

  “I don’t like him. And not just ’cause he wouldn’t talk to me. He’s got a pleasant enough face-not ugly, not handsome-just ordinary. It’s just his manner. I mean, he’s well dressed. Presentable. There’s nothing I can put my finger on. I just don’t like him.”

  Steve grinned. “You’re advising me against taking him on as a client?”

  “Of course not. It’s just a feeling, and he may be a nice guy, but you asked me so I told you.”

  “All right,” Steve said. “Show the gentleman in.”

  Tracy went out and returned moments later ushering in Carl Jenson. She made a show of closing the door behind her, indicating that she intended to stay, before saying, “Mr. Jenson to see you, Mr. Winslow.”

  The gesture was wasted. Jenson strode up to the desk. Steve rose to meet him.

  “Mr. Winslow?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Carl Jenson.”

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  They shook hands.

  “Sit down, Mr. Jenson,” Steve said. “What can I do for you?”

  Jenson sat in the clients’ chair. Steve sat at his desk. Tracy pulled up a chair, opened her notebook. Jenson gave her a look, but said nothing. Tracy frowned slightly. Steve’s eyes twinkled. She’d been hoping Jenson would object to her being there so Steve would dress him down.

  “I was hoping we could exchange some information,” Jenson said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Jenson put up his hands. “I know, I know. You’re an attorney. You don’t want to tell me anything. But I think once you understand the situation-” Jenson smiled. “Well, I’m sure we can work something out.”

  “I’m not so sure we can,” Steve said. “But what did you have in mind?”

  “It’s about Uncle Jack, of course.”

  “Uncle Jack?”

  “Yes. Perhaps you didn’t catch the name. I’m Carl Jenson.”

  “Your name I caught. Your drift is what I’m having problems with.”

  “But surely he mentioned me.”

  “Who?”

  “Uncle Jack.”

  “And who is Uncle Jack?”

  “Then he didn’t mention me. That’s strange. No wonder you’re confused. I’m sorry. I keep saying Uncle Jack. I mean Jack Walsh, of course.”

  Steve’s face was absolutely neutral. “Jack Walsh?”

  Jenson smiled and put up his hands. “Sure, sure. Play it safe and conservative. Like you never heard the name. All right. I’ll tell you. I’m referring to Jack Walsh. My uncle. The man who came to your office this morning to consult you.”

  Jenson stopped, looked at him. Steve said nothing. Jenson frowned. “Or perhaps he used another name. That would be just like him.” Jenson smiled. “But you couldn’t miss him. I mean the bum.”

  “The bum?”

  “Yeah, the bum. The street person. The man who looked like he rolled in the gutter before he came up here.”

  Steve said nothing. His face remained positively neutral.

  “Surely you remember him,” Jenson said dryly.

  Steve sighed. “Mr. Jenson. I think I made my position clear. I have no intention of discussing any of my clients with you in any way. If you came for information, you’re in the wrong place. Now, if you want to talk, I will let you talk. If you want to keep making statements that are really questions, and trying to get a rise out of me, I suggest that you leave.”

  Jenson nodded. “Sure, sure. You say that now. But once you understand the situation … All right. All right. You listen, I’ll tell you.”

  Jenson stopped and leaned in confidentially. “The first thing you have to understand is that the man is sick. I don’t mean physically sick. Physically he’s strong as a horse. No, I mean mentally sick. The man has lost it. Gone off the deep end. So whatever he told you, you shouldn’t take it at face value.”

  Steve closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. “Mr. Jenson,” he said. “We don’t seem to be getting anywhere. And I doubt if there is anywhere to get. In the interests of expediency, I am going to discuss this with you as if I knew what you were talking about. Which quite frankly I don’t. But setting that aside, and without admitting for a moment that I even know the man you’re talking about, let’s discuss him. This man-your uncle-Jack Walsh-what makes you think he’s not mentally competent?”

  “Are you kidding?” Jenson said. “Just look at him. He sleeps in the subways. He lives like a bum.”

  “Mr. Jenson, there are thousands of homeless peop
le in New York City. Granted, some of them are mentally incompetent. But a large number of them are merely poor.”

  “But he isn’t poor,” Jenson said. “That’s the whole point. The man’s worth millions.”

  “Millions?”

  “Yes, of course. Didn’t he tell you that?”

  Steve frowned. “Again with the questions.” Steve rubbed his head. “Mr. Jenson, what makes you think your uncle consulted me?”

  “I don’t think, I know.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I followed him here.”

  “You followed him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why were you following him?”

  “To see where he went, of course. But, oh, you don’t mean that. You have to understand. None of us had seen him in weeks.”

  “Us?”

  “Yes. The family. His family.”

  “And who might that be?”

  Jenson frowned. “But surely you know that. If you don’t there’s no point. But you won’t let on, because you won’t tell me what he told you.”

  “Who’s the family?” Steve rephrased his question.

  “I don’t know why I should answer your questions when you won’t answer mine.”

  “Any reason why you don’t want me to know who his family is?”

  “None at all.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “I was just pointing out that it wasn’t fair.”

  “I never claimed to be fair. You sought this interview. I told you it was going to be one-sided.”

  Jenson glared at him for a moment. Then he shook his head. “All right, have it your way. The family. Let’s see. There’s me. My sister Rose-that’s Rose Tindel. Her husband, Jason Tindel. My cousin Pat, Pat Grayson. Her husband, Fred Grayson. My Aunt Claire, Claire Chesterton. She’s Uncle Jack’s niece.”

  “Wait a minute. Your aunt is your uncle’s niece?”

  “No, no. That does sound strange, doesn’t it. Jack Walsh is really my great-uncle, but I call him Uncle Jack. My mother was his brother’s daughter. They’re both dead now. So’s my father. I always think of him as Uncle Jack.”

  “I see. So that’s the family?”

  “Yes. Except for Jeremy. He’s eighteen. He’s Jack’s sister’s grandson. His parents were killed in a car accident when he was three. Aunt Rose brought him up.”