Eddie picked up the anger in my voice, started barking. A rare display.
Neither the shouting nor the barking seemed to faze Fowler. He looked over at second suit. “Note in our report that Mr. Seattle threatened me and was abusive.” He looked back at me. “We’re not to blame here. You brought this on yourself. Your behavior now only makes matters worse.”
“That’s all the file cabinets,” one of the grunts said.
Fowler smiled. “Good. We’ll be leaving then. I advise you to read those papers carefully, Mr. Seattle. You’re in serious trouble. Serious trouble indeed.”
I stood there—stunned. As I watched them drive away, my anger dissolved into depression. The internal questioning began: Why had I lashed out at them? Why hadn’t I treated these people like my new best friends? Why hadn’t I learned more about the charges?
“This is so unfair,” Rosemary said angrily, standing behind her desk. “You were so nice to Joe. All those times you tried to put him on fee to save him money.”
She was right. There was irony in this. One of the few things Joe and I had argued about was commissions. Joe’d insisted I charge him by the trade. Since I bought and sold a lot of equities for him, those commissions added up. What I would have preferred to do was charge him a percentage on the assets I managed. I’d even put together a comparison, complete with pie charts, that showed moving to a 1% fee made sense for him.
He’d smiled benignly, dismissing my efforts on his behalf. “Matt, I’m more comfortable paying you when you do something for me, and that’s the way it’s going to stay.”
We’d argued over it enough it had gotten to be a sore point with him. If I even looked like I was about to mention a fee, he’d cut me off, change the subject.
The phone rang. “What do I say?” Rosemary wanted to know.
“Tell them I’ll call them back,” I said.
Forced to come up with a plan of action. I did. “I’ll go buy new computers; we’ll load the programs off the back-up CDs in the fireproof safe. We should be back up and running in a couple hours.”
It was closer to four. At the computer store, I was like a kid in a candy shop. A year ago, when I’d bought the computers, I’d bought basic utility. Now, I had the opportunity to upgrade. I got something stylish for Rosemary. A system with a black, flat-screen monitor, larger hard drive, more functionality. For myself, I chose a system with large-screen monitor and the ability to sync to a new laptop and my Blackberry. I loaded it all in the Saab, feeling like I’d gotten every bell and whistle.
I hoped I’d stay in business long enough to use all these toys.
Chapter 11
Back at the office, I had a pile of pink phone message slips waiting for me. I ignored them, picked up the phone, dialed Julian’s number. Amanda answered. “He’s taking a deposition. I expect him back around eight. Want me to have him call you?”
I looked at my watch. It was seven. Enough time for me to run out, bring back a bite before he called. “Sure. Tell him I’m at the office.”
There was a Chinese place, Hop Luck’s, a block away. I got an order of chicken fried rice, carried it back. In the office kitchen, I fixed Eddie a bowl of dog food, and we ate in silence. When we were finished, he went and stood by the back door.
I let him out, stood on the back stoop while he sniffed around to find the perfect spot. It was nice out. The heat of the day had passed, the noise of downtown commuted to the suburbs.
Inside, the phone rang. I left the door open for Eddie, hustled in to take it in my office.
“Matt, it’s Julian. Amanda said to call as soon as I got in.”
“I had the N.A.S.D. here this afternoon, Julian. They took all my computers, my files. Can they do that?”
“They’d have to have a subpoena to impound your property.”
I picked up the wad of papers Fowler had handed me. “They did.”
“That means they had this approved by a judge and the arbiter. They’re moving this along. Usually, in this kind of case, the other side tries to wear you down by asking for more and more information. With you, they wanted it all at once.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I’ll have to talk to the N.A.S.D. to find out for sure.”
“Ask for Fowler. He was the guy in charge.”
I heard a click. Probably the top coming off his Mont Blanc. Scratches as he wrote down the name. “I’ll call first thing in the morning. My guess is Nevitt is posturing for your removal as executor.”
“Can we cut a deal here? Tell him I won’t be executor if he’ll drop these churning charges?”
“I called him, floated something like that to see if he’d go for it. He didn’t. He wants money. Specifically, return of all brokerage fees and damages for malfeasance.”
“Damages? How can he expect damages?”
“If the N.A.S.D. rules in Nevitt’s favor, he’s set to file a complaint on behalf of the estate seeking damages for malfeasance.”
“Can he do that?”
“I’m afraid he can. There’s precedent for a malfeasance suit. He can cite good case law supporting his position. But if the N.A.S.D. rules in our favor, Nevitt doesn’t have a case. Let me call this guy, Fowler, sound him out, see what we’re up against. I’ll call you as soon as I hear something.”
“Thanks, Julian.” I hung up, walked to the back door to check on Eddie. He was lying in a patch of grass, the last of the day’s sun on his back. “Tanning, huh?”
He looked at me, yawned, put his head back down.
I did the dishes, hooked the computers to the network, loaded the software and data. Once I had it all put together, I called up Joe’s account and ran the numbers. In the six full calendar quarters we’d worked together, the percentages were: 43, 61, 90, 130, 86, 78. Considering that Joe often bought stocks and sold them a few days later, the numbers weren’t as bad as I feared. High, but not over the magic number.
I looked at my watch. Ten to ten. I turned off the computers, the lights. Tried to turn off my mind. I couldn’t stop worrying. Especially when I realized there was something Julian hadn’t told me—the amount of the damages Nevitt wanted.
I got a chance to ask him next morning. He called at nine. “I just got a fax from Nevitt. We have a hearing Thursday morning at ten o’clock. Judge Nancy Ott’s court.”
I entered it in my Blackberry. “Why so soon? Why isn’t he waiting until after the N.A.S.D. hearing? That doesn’t make sense.”
“Sure it does. Ott is one of those judges who favor women. All she has to hear is the suggestion that you’ve wronged Janet Jesso, and she’ll rule in her favor. On the other hand, if you’re found innocent in the N.A.S.D. arbitration, Nevitt doesn’t have anything. It’s the suggestion of impropriety he wants.”
“What do you think will happen?”
“They got lucky when they drew Judge Ott. Based on her past rulings, she’ll side with them. She’ll remove you. That’s not all bad since you don’t want to be executor. On the other hand, removal will add credence to Nevitt’s malfeasance suit.”
“Did Nevitt tell you what he wants in damages?”
“No, and I didn’t ask. Judging by the way he was talking—compensatory and punitive damages—I think he’s going for the moon.”
“Julian, do we need to bring in a junkyard-dog attorney for this?” Julian was a good corporate attorney. He wasn’t a litigator.
“I’m working on that, I know a litigator who can give Nevitt a run for his money.”
“Get him, quick.”
“Her,” he said.
“Would that help us with Judge Ott?”
“Might. I’ll call you back when I know more.”
At eleven, Rosemary buzzed me. “Julian again.” I picked up.
“Fowler called me back. I introduced myself, said I’d be representing you, played a little dumb. Here’s what he told me. Nevitt filed the complaint against you the day after Jesso’s death. Their compliance people felt—even though the ma
rriage was only a week old—it was a valid marriage, hence a valid complaint. He said that based on the allegations they feel an investigation is warranted. They’ll listen to arguments for dismissal only at arbitration. I asked for their date for arbitration so we’d know how long we have to prepare. They told me two to three weeks from now at the earliest.”
“Why so long?”
“Apparently, the N.A.S.D. doesn’t move quickly. Which is good. We need time to prepare for this probate court appearance. I’ve arranged for Amy Quell to litigate for us. You’ll be impressed. She’s terrific.”
He wasn’t wrong. Julian, Amy, and I met twice at his office to prepare. Amy was short and wide, with a chubby round face, long stringy black hair, and a booming voice. She had an exceptionally quick mind and seemed to have an answer for everything. I left our meetings actually feeling confident.
My confidence ebbed Thursday as I entered the Sarasota County Courthouse. Nervous, I’d arrived too early. I loitered in the lobby with most of the city’s known felons.
At precisely the appointed time, Julian swept in, Amy in his wake. “You look a little green,” she said to me.
I nodded. “I’ll be glad when this is over.”
Amy studied me. “You know the drill? You didn’t forget? I answer all questions.”
I nodded nervously.
“Let’s head on in,” Julian said.
I followed them into Judge Ott’s courtroom. Amy talked to the bailiff.
“We’re on in ten minutes,” she told us.
I used the time to get a sense of Judge Ott, an older woman with wispy, gray hair and a shriveled-prune face. She was reading someone the riot act, her voice shrill, penetrating.
“What’s going on?” I asked Amy.
She snickered. “Looks like this guy can’t account for all the assets in the estate. She’ll crucify him; just watch.”
I did. It was painful. All I could think about was that could be me up there.
“Jesso vs. Seattle,” a male voice called out.
Suddenly, it was me up there. We stood at our table in front of the Judge. Nevitt and the widow Jesso were at their table. The bailiff read the complaint. Judge Ott peered down from her bench, squinting at them, squinting at us.
“Counselor,” she said, indicating Nevitt. “I want to hear from you, succinctly, why you believe I should remove Mr. Seattle as executor.”
“Your Honor,” Nevitt began, “my client learned from her husband—”
“Hearsay, your Honor,” Amy bellowed.
Judge Ott looked at Amy, frowned. “Overruled. I want to hear this. You’ll get your say.”
“Thank you, your Honor,” Nevitt said gracefully. “My client’s husband felt his stockbroker, Mr. Seattle, was cheating him, that he was buying and selling Mr. Jesso’s stocks to run up the commissions he earned. This rapid buying and selling of stocks is called churning. Mr. Seattle is now under investigation by the National Association of Securities Dealers.”
Ott squinted at me. Her frown deepened. “That’s disturbing.”
“Yes it is, your Honor. My client is fearful that, as executor, Mr. Seattle will churn the estate further to create even more income for himself. Since Mrs. Jesso is the sole beneficiary of the estate, there’s no reason to subject her to that threat. We ask that under the Florida revised code,” he read a series of numbers and sites, “Mr. Seattle be removed as fiduciary and the Court appoint an executor to serve in that capacity. Thank you, your Honor.”
Ott’s head pivoted. She stared at Amy. “Counselor, let’s hear your side of it. Again, be respectful of the Court’s time.”
“We will, your Honor,” Amy said confidently. “Mr. Seattle was Mr. Jesso’s stockbroker for over a year and a half. At any time during that period, Mr. Jesso could have stopped using Mr. Seattle’s services. He didn’t. The fact is, Mr. Jesso had a very good relationship with my client, often spending long periods of time at his offices discussing stocks. I think that’s important because it shows Mr. Jesso was a stock enthusiast, a man who liked to buy and sell. Mr. Seattle didn’t churn Mr. Jesso’s account. Mr. Jesso liked to move quickly in and out of the market. Your Honor, if you were to look at trading records of stock enthusiasts like Mr. Jesso, I believe you’d see even more frenetic patterns of trading. The churning charges filed by Mr. Nevitt are a self-serving ploy—”
“Objection, your Honor,” Nevitt said quickly.
“Overruled. I heard what you had to say. I want to hear what she has to say—without interruption.”
“Thank you, your Honor. We believe the churning charges filed by Mr. Nevitt were trumped up to give grounds for Mr. Seattle’s dismissal. We ask you to look past this ploy. Further, the Jessos were married only a week before Mr. Jesso’s death. This was Mrs. Jesso’s third marriage—that we can uncover—all to wealthy, older men. Because this marriage was only a week old, Mrs. Jesso hadn’t gotten control of her husband’s money. We believe that’s what this fiduciary removal request is about—getting Mr. Seattle out of the way so Mrs. Jesso can gain exclusive control of Mr. Jesso’s estate. We ask, your Honor, that Mr. Seattle be retained as fiduciary.”
Judge Ott scowled. All the wrinkles in her prune face shifted. She glanced back and forth at us, at them, then consulted a large book, using her index finger to flip noisily through the pages. She found what she wanted, squinted at it for a minute, flipped around further, found something else.
The tension was killing me.
Finally, she looked up, made a loud, sucking sound as she took a deep breath. “Mr. Nevitt, I find no evidence that supports your contention that Mr. Seattle took advantage of Mr. Jesso. In fact, the evidence supports quite the contrary. It appears that Mr. Jesso and Mr. Seattle had a beneficial long-term relationship, a relationship strong enough that Mr. Jesso named Mr. Seattle his executor. Why you would choose to attack Mr. Seattle rather than work with him is not clear to me. However, you have chosen this course of action and have undoubtedly incurred the animus of Mr. Seattle. I see no reason why Mr. Seattle should be punished to serve your ends. I see no reason why he should be asked to administer a hostile estate, especially since Mrs. Jesso is the only beneficiary.” She sucked in more air in another of those deep breaths. “Therefore, I am removing Mr. Seattle from his obligation as executor and will name an officer of the court to serve as executor. Do you understand my ruling, Mr. Nevitt?”
“I do your Honor. I have one small concern.”
“Speak up, Mr. Nevitt. Let’s hear it.”
“With all due respect, your Honor. There is considerable indication Mr. Seattle substantially overcharged for his services. We are preparing to file criminal charges to recover those monies. I’m concerned that an outside executor might complicate this process.”
“Don’t talk around the issue, Nevitt. Say what’s on your mind.”
“Your Honor, I’d like you to appoint me executor of the Jesso estate.”
“Objection, your Honor,” Amy yelled in outrage. “As executor, he’d be able to orchestrate the facts to suit his case.”
“Not true,” Nevitt corrected her matter-of-factly. “What’s happened has already been recorded. The N.A.S.D. has that information and will issue their own verdict on malfeasance. That’s not the issue. The issue is Mrs. Jesso. She’s the sole beneficiary of the estate. As the sole beneficiary, she would like me to serve as executor, both to make sure the assets are properly administered and to make sure she isn’t denied justice in recovering what has been wrongly taken from her.”
“Your Honor,” Amy snorted. “Mrs. Jesso was married to Mr. Jesso for one week. Hardly enough time for her to understand Mr. Jesso’s stock portfolio, much less—”
“Be quiet,” Judge Ott ordered.
Amy was.
“Mrs. Jesso, do you want Mr. Nevitt as executor of the estate?”
“Yes, your Honor,” she answered meekly.
Ott looked over at me. “Mr. Seattle, would you feel at risk if Mr. Nevitt were executor?”<
br />
I looked at Amy for direction.
“I don’t want her opinion, I want yours, Mr. Seattle”
“I wouldn’t feel comfortable with him as executor,” I answered honestly.
“I’m not comfortable with it, either,” Judge Ott said reflectively. “Mr. Nevitt, the best I can do for you is make you co-executor with an appointed officer of the court. That officer will report to me. If he senses any impropriety, you’ll find yourself in front of me again, and it won’t be pleasant. Understand?”
“Yes, your Honor,” Nevitt mumbled.
“All right,” she concluded. “Mr. Seattle, you are excused, through no fault of your own, from serving as executor of Mr. Jesso’s estate. That will be noted on my ruling. Mr. Nevitt, you are appointed co-executor. The court will be in contact with you with the appointment of the other co-executor.”
She looked at her watch, then the bailiff. “Next on the docket.”
We were dismissed.
We turned to leave, and I caught a glimpse of a young blond man in a flashy green sharkskin suit staring at us.
“I thought it went pretty well,” Amy said when we were back in the lobby.
“It did, thanks to you,” I said. “You did a wonderful job.”
She smiled, obviously pleased. “Don’t tell me that,” she warned. “I bill accordingly.” She patted me on the shoulder. “Just kidding.”
“We’re not finished yet,” Julian said soberly. “This suit concerns me. We need to begin preparing for that as soon as possible.” He looked over at me. “I’ll have Amanda call both of you and schedule a time to begin. Is that okay?” We nodded. “See you both then.” He waved as he walked off.
I thanked Amy again and headed out of the building to my car. The man in the sharkskin suit fell in step next to me. He looked over at me. “Mr. Seattle, can I talk to you for a minute?”
I stopped, turned to face him. He was young, thin, not too tall. With hard black eyes, close-cropped blond hair, weak chin. The gaudy sharkskin suited him. The way he looked at me, I could tell the kid had an attitude. “This isn’t a very good time. What’s it about?”
Jay Giles Page 5
