The Coaster (5 page)

Lang winced a little and gritted his teeth, like he was about to receive a shot from his doctor or down a particularly nasty shot of whiskey. “That's what you might expect to happen, Bob, but it's actually the opposite. In any other year, the marital trust would get the vast majority of the assets, but this year…”

“Because there's no estate tax,” I interrupted, “Sam's entire estate goes in the family trust.”

“That is correct, Bob,” Lang said. “So as trustee, you, not Joan, will be in charge of all of Sam's money.”

***

“I don't understand,” Joan said. “What's the difference? Everything's in a trust either way, right?”

Lang got lawyerly again. “In a basic sense, the two trusts are very similar. Joan is the beneficiary during her lifetime and Sarah is the beneficiary upon Joan's death. But as a practical matter, the trusts are very different for the beneficiary. In the marital trust, it's all essentially Joan's money to do with as she pleases. She could request that every penny be distributed immediately and that request would be granted.”

“But you just told us none of the estate was going in that trust,” I said. “Why are we talking about the trust provisions of an empty trust?”

“I want everyone to understand the thinking that went into this. If Sam had died in any other year, Joan would have complete access to the vast majority of the assets in the estate.”

I was beginning to understand. “So, ironically, because Sam died in a year with no estate tax, Joan will have limited access to her own money in order to avoid paying estate tax.”

“I don't know if it's ‘ironic,' but the substance of what you said is correct.”
Ironically, no one really knows what “ironic” means.

“Maybe it's not ironic, but what are the odds of Sam dying right before his estate was essentially going to be cut in half by the government?”

“It's not that unusual,” Lang said. “There are reports of sick and elderly people who essentially willed themselves to die before the end of the year so their families would get all of the money they accumulated.”

“Or got smothered with a pillow by those families.” It just popped out. I looked at Sarah and Joan. “But certainly not this family.” I'm sure some greedy adult children tried to beat the end of the year deadline by tripping over mom's ventilator cord, but in our case it would have been absurd to think saving some taxes would be a net financial benefit to the family, compared to having Sam still in charge.

Lang jumped in quickly. “No one is suggesting anything like that. It was just a coincidence.”

“Right,” I said. “So we know everything we need to know about the trust that doesn't exist. What about the trust with all the money in it? How does that work?”

“In order to avoid paying estate tax on those assets at Joan's death,” Lang said, “the family trust has to be set up with limited right to the funds for the beneficiary.”

“How ‘limited' are we talking about?” I asked.

“Joan will receive all of the income from the trust during her lifetime.” Lang placed his “reading” glasses back on his nose. “She will also have the right to distributions of principal ‘as the trustee, in its sole and absolute discretion, determines to be necessary or advisable for her support, maintenance, health, and education.'”

“That sounds reasonable,” Joan said. “Support, maintenance, health, education. That's pretty much everything isn't it?”

There was an elephant in the room, but I wasn't going to point him out as long as he just sat there silently munching hay. Unfortunately, my wife is a pretty sharp cookie and spotted him herself. “It sounds reasonable, but that means you have to get the trustee's permission any time you want to spend any of your money and it's in the trustee's absolute discretion whether to give it to you or not.”

Now Joan was the one looking ill. “So I'll need to get Bob's permission if I want to use the principal?”

“That's right,” Lang said. “You'll need to request a distribution in writing and explain to Bob what it will be used for so he can determine if it's an acceptable expense under the rules of the trust. Certain recurring expenses can be set up to be paid automatically by the trust. For example, Sam's own trust paid for his heart medicine every month.”

“Joan, you don't have to worry about a thing,” I said. “I'm honored Sam would entrust me with such great responsibility and I'll do my best to honor his wishes, which would first and foremost be that you are taken care of in the manner you deserve. You tell me anything you need and I'll see that you get it. I'll be a rubber stamp.”

“Thank you, Bob.”

I truly would do my best to keep Joan happy because she's a good woman and that's what Sam would have wanted. But like a lot of husbands, I felt that my mother-in-law thought her daughter could do better. I confess I couldn't help fantasizing about her being forced to come to me on bended knee for even the barest necessities.

“I think your current car is just fine, Joan, but when your odometer hits two hundred thousand miles, I'd be happy to readdress the situation with you. Good day.”

“But—”

“I said good day!”

***

“So what's the next step?” I asked Lang.

“The next step is for us—and you, Bob—to get busy administering this trust. Give us a couple of days to get everything together. Why don't you come here to our offices Monday morning, let's say eight o'clock?”

“I certainly want to do my best to carry out Sam's wishes, but you do understand I've already got a full-time job, right?”

Lang knew perfectly well I didn't exactly grind out ten-hour workdays all week. I was always available to take his call or go to lunch or do anything else I wanted during the day. But at least he had sense enough not to let the cat out of the bag in front of my wife and mother-in-law. Maybe he wasn't a crappy lawyer after all. Sarah obviously knew on some level I wasn't all that busy at work, but we had kind of an unspoken understanding that she wouldn't say anything about it because it allowed me to handle a lot of the traditionally female household duties like grocery shopping and picking up the kids after school. If I really did work a traditional nine-to-five job where I had to show up and work all day, she wouldn't have been free to concentrate on all the Sarah stuff she likes to do. And as far as I knew, her mother thought when I was at work I was hard at work. I don't think she could even imagine anything else.

“Don't worry about it,” Lang said. “It's going to be pretty busy at first, but in a month or two it'll settle down. Trustee of this trust is not a full-time job.”

I knew that by my standards it was far more than a full-time job, but what could I say? “Well, I'll have to make sure we've got everything covered at my business. We may have to move some meetings around, that kind of thing—”

“Sam didn't think it would be a problem for you.”

“Well, I'm glad he had confidence in me.”
But he didn't know me like I do.

Lang started to gather up his papers. “Oh, one more thing. Sam and I also discussed the trustee's compensation for the exercise of his duties. I suggested a significant salary because the trustee would be responsible for quite a large estate, the administration of which would occupy a good portion of his time.”

“Really?” I asked. Old Lang finally coming through. “What's a trustee pull down these days?”

“It can be in the high six figures for an estate of this size.”

“It can be but isn't, I take it.”

“That's correct.”

“How much?”

“Nothing,” Lang said with what I read to be a phony pained expression on his face. He was secretly enjoying this part. “I'm sorry. The trust specifically states that the trustee will receive no pay. Sam thought you'd be insulted if he even offered it.”

I told you no one knew the real me.

***

“What's wrong?” Sarah asked me on the drive home from Lang's office.

“What do you mean? Nothing's wrong.”

“You haven't said a word since we got in the car.” Sarah thinks she can tell my mood by how I'm acting. She's usually way off base but that doesn't stop her.

“I'm just thinking,” I said. “I'm quiet in the car all the time. You always have your nose buried in your laptop so you don't notice.”

She gave me one of those
It's cute that he thinks I can't read him like a book
female looks and said, “What are you thinking about?”

“I don't know if I can do it.”

“Does it bother you that you won't be getting paid?”

“Not really. I'd like to be fairly compensated for my services, but since I don't know what I'm doing, a salary of nothing seems about right. Plus I'll be overseeing an estate that eventually will go to you, so it's not like I don't have a vested interest in helping in any way I can.”

“Then what's the problem?”

“I can't understand why your father would pick me as trustee.”

“I told you,” Sarah said. “Dad respected you more than you think.”

“I think he respected me to a degree,” I said. “But it still doesn't make sense. I'd think you'd see it more than anyone.”

”What do you mean?”

“I'm not the one he's been grooming since birth to take over his business. I'm not the one with all the Ivy League degrees or the features in magazines about the top young executives in the country. I'm not the one Sam would have trusted to run everything in his absence. He clearly didn't want to bring me into the family business.”

“That doesn't mean he didn't have confidence in you.”

“Maybe he did,” I said. “And I'd be an excellent choice compared to ninety-nine percent of the population. But what I don't understand is how I'm a better choice than his only child, who, in addition to being his own flesh and blood, is more qualified in every way. If Sam didn't want Joan or the law firm to control the trust, why didn't he appoint you?”

“At first I thought, ‘Is it because I'm a woman?'”

I shook my head. “That's not it. Your father has never treated you like he expected anything less from you because you were a girl. He's raised you to be a titan. Some good old boys may treat you differently because you're female, but your dad sure as hell never did.”

“I know. I rejected that idea pretty quickly. I think I finally figured it out while listening to Dan drone on about your duties and all the meetings you were going to have.”

“Okay, what's the answer?”

“The trustee job is really just administrative. You're going to have a bunch of advisors to help you make every decision. A lot of what you'll be doing will be a waste of time. My father wants me to keep doing what I'm doing, which is running the business that allowed him to generate such a large estate in the first place.”

Of course Sarah was right. She needed to remain in a position that actually required brains and effort and know-how. I would handle the administrative bullshit so that Sarah could do the real work. Although it was a slight blow to my ego, it just confirmed what I already knew to be Sam's opinion of me. The idea that anyone would consider me the equal of his daughter would have been laughable to him.

“I guess that makes sense,” I said. “I'm the best man for the job when you really don't want your best man on the job.”

Chapter Six

This trustee gig was plainly going to be the hardest work I'd ever done. Admittedly, it wasn't work as a lumberjack knows it, or a farmer, or anyone else who physically
labors
in his job. But for a guy who has made his bones in the workaday world by
not
working, or really doing much of anything, this was going to be a real comeuppance.

It was only the first workday following our conference with Lang, but it felt like I'd been at it for months. The mere prospect of all those meetings was hanging over my head like a black cloud.

While spending the weekend worrying, I'd called Lang four different times at home. Generally, he's a lot more helpful out of his Brooks Brothers gear and I usually don't get billed. But the main things he kept emphasizing were “don't panic” and “don't fuck it up.” With that sound legal framework under my belt, what could possibly go wrong?

Although I live in constant fear of them, business and/or social disasters rarely actually happen to me. Apparently from the outside looking in, I come off as a cool, competent professional. People assume I know what I'm doing and I've learned if I don't say too much, they'll keep thinking it. Fortunately for me, it takes a lot to move a person off his initial impression. From the outside, it may look like I'm listening to elevator music or cool jazz, but inside I'm hearing,
Incoming!
and
I can't find my legs!

Lang was actually very helpful in setting up a couple of the key meetings for me already. In the morning I met with Sam's accountants. They assured me they would continue as they had been, except their quarterly reports would go to me instead of Sam. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. A work group made up of me and two other people who not only know what they're doing but also do all the work? That's page one of my playbook.

My second meeting on Monday was with a guy named James (“Don't call me Jim!”) Madison, another lawyer at Lang's firm. Someone faxed over a letter from Madison introducing himself and laying out how things were going to work. At the bottom it said
Dictated but not read
, which translated into non-legalese meant:
I'm so busy I don't even have time to read the letters I send and if there's anything in there you don't like, it's my secretary's fault.
I hadn't even met this guy and I already hated him.

From the letter—
Read but not fully comprehended
—I understood that Madison was to be my Sherpa as I scaled Trust Mountain. Without his expert guidance, I'd never make it to the top and would most likely freeze to death. I had no reason to doubt his trust-administering skill, but what was up with the James Madison thing? If you insist on being called James, you're probably an asshole no matter what your last name is, but to gravy train off one of America's founding fathers? I'll bet he was called Jimmy or something growing up but went to James when he became a lawyer. Well, I'm not calling him James Madison unless there's an original copy of the Federalist Papers on his desk.

Anyway, I was finished with the accountants by ten a.m. and I had to be downtown at the law office of Mr. Madison at two-thirty p.m., which gave me plenty of time to get my work done at the office before my second job began.

I went into my office and stared into my computer screen for the next hour, just like a regular workday. I still had a lot of time to kill before the meeting, so I caught up on the latest cultural headlines, news blogs, and sports analysis. You really need the discipline to do it every day or you get hopelessly behind. I couldn't quite enjoy my usual mindless morning activities, however, because my thoughts continually returned to Sam's death. I already missed him. He thought his daughter—my wife—could have done a lot better in the husband department, but he learned over time that she also could have done a lot worse. We had come to an unspoken truce over the last decade or so. He realized I was never going to ascend to the throne of “city father” as he had done so many years ago, and I realized he was never going to completely buy my act. It bothered him to think about our city and what would happen when the puppet masters all died off and the idiot politicians were set free to make important decisions on their own, but he could tell I wasn't the man for the job. He hoped Sarah was the woman for it.

But he also realized I was an excellent father, if not provider, to his grandchildren, whom he loved dearly. Over the years we had become friends. Not great friends, not drinking buddies—Sam didn't drink—but friends nonetheless. As only a father can, he understood the unique difficulties of being married to his daughter. He was always living a similar version of the same insanity over at his house, so we were able to bond over common ground.

Sam was always in control. He had the discipline of a monk. He exercised and ate right. I'm sure it annoyed him that his daughter would marry a man who was his opposite, but girls often do, and not necessarily to punish their fathers. In a way it's a compliment. They know they can never find Daddy's equal, so they go in a completely different direction.

I couldn't wrap my head around the idea that Sam was really dead. If he'd lived the life he did and still died younger than he should have, what chance did I have? I might as well start saying my goodbyes now because the likelihood of my seeing sixty seemed out of the question.

***

I grabbed a quick lunch and headed downtown to meet Madison. I don't mean to suggest I don't care about lunch. I'm not one of those masters of the universe who's so busy he only has time to grab a quick bite to eat every day between meetings. My pre-trustee workdays often revolved completely around lunch. An early lunch would make it pointless to get started on anything in the morning, and a late lunch would make it impossible to take on a new task in the afternoon before it was time to pick up the kids. A well-scheduled lunch could pretty effectively kill a whole day.

I once again entered the law offices of Whatever-the-hell-I-called-it and Langham. I'm not ashamed to admit I was looking forward to seeing the hot receptionist again. I was now in charge of a multi-multi-million-dollar estate being administered by the firm. Like Richard Gere at the dress shop in
Pretty Woman
, I figured I was going to need some major sucking up.

She was sitting at one of those high receptionist's areas that's more like a bar than a desk. So I treated it like one and leaned against it and said “Hello again” in what I thought was a friendly, if not flirty, manner.

She looked up and smiled back at me. “Hello. What can I do for you today?”

“Today, I'm seeing James Madison to go over some of these trust matters. It's good to see that he managed to get work after he left the presidency.”

She giggled. If she hadn't had to answer the phones, she probably would have loved to meet me at a downtown hotel. “Your name, sir?”
Or maybe not.

“Patterson? I was here Friday meeting with Dan Langham?”

She looked up in the universal sign of “I'm searching my brain,” especially popular among attractive women because it makes their eyes look even bigger. “Doesn't ring a bell.”

“You served coffee to my wife, mother-in-law, and me in the conference room.”

“Oh, right. Mr. Bennett's daughter. I'm sorry, I guess I didn't see you. But I love your wife. She's a real role model for women in business.”

I'm sure she is. I'll ask her if she has any tips for women in the receptionist business, like how to paint your nails with a telephone cradled on your shoulder. If this is the kind of sucking up I'm going to receive, maybe I should take my business to another boutique. “Could you tell Mr. Madison I'm here?”

***

Madison made me wait in the conference room for the same reason he calls himself James Madison. And the same reason he was wearing a bow tie. He had the classic “look at me” personality. He probably had a 1936 Packard in the parking lot that he drove while wearing a scarf and goggles. Why can't he like whatever he likes without making sure the rest of us know about it?

Madison's hair was blond and thinning. A little too long for a lawyer, but just right for a quirky one. He looked like Philip Seymour Hoffman when he was playing a total prick.

It was a different conference room this time. The other one was for impressing important clients like Sarah and her mother. This one was for work. There was one of those white cardboard file boxes on the table.

He stuck out his hand. “Bob, James Madison.” It was damp, as I knew it would be. “I'm the lawyer in this firm who handles the administration of large trust estates. It's basically all I do and I'm very good at it.”

“That raises the obvious question,” I said. “What do you need me for?”

We sat down and he continued. “True, I could handle everything myself, but one, you'd be violating your fiduciary duty as trustee if you failed to oversee the administration of the trust, and two, these are decisions that Mr. Bennett specifically wanted you to make. If he wanted me to make the decisions, he would have named the firm as trustee. But he didn't. He named you.”

“Okay,” I shrugged. “Where do we start?”

He gestured at the box on the table. “We need to go over all these files so you can familiarize yourself with Mr. Bennett's business interests.” That didn't sound too bad. I could probably stand a week or two of dealing with him.

The door opened and a man came in pushing a dolly with five more white file boxes on it. “Where do you want these, Mr. Madison?”

“Just stack them in the corner.”

“Okay. It's going to take me three or four trips to get the rest.”

***

I didn't get out of Madison's office the rest of the day. I smelled the unusual aroma of cooking food when I walked into the house at eight. Sarah was in the kitchen wearing an apron over a dress and pearls.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Cleaver,” I said. “Is the Beaver home?”

“If you play your cards right, he might be,” Sarah said. “I knew you'd probably be working late, so I thought I'd prepare you a home-cooked meal. The martini shaker is on the counter.”

I poured myself a drink. “Home-cooked?”

“Well, home-heated. Costco lasagna. It's like regular lasagna except it serves forty-eight.”

I came up behind her at the sink, put my arms around her, and kissed her neck. “It smells great. Where are the kids?”

“They already ate. They're doing their homework in their rooms and getting ready for bed.”

“Are you sure this isn't the Cleavers'?”

“This is the performance you get when I'm in charge for the evening.”

She was right. In every aspect of her life, Sarah gets shit done. I'm sure she'd turn into Martha Stewart if she ran the household on a daily basis. I finished my martini and poured another. That's the thing about martinis. You can drain that tiny little glass in one gulp and the entire shaker in about ten minutes.

We sat down to dinner, just the two of us. I took a bite of lasagna. Delicious. “This lasagna really is as good as any other lasagna. Why does anyone make their own food from scratch?”

“If they bought pre-made food, what would all the stay-at-home moms and housewives do with themselves all day?”

“I don't know,” I said. “Screw the pool boy?”

Sarah's face lit up with excitement. “Can we get a pool boy? Or at least a pool?”

“I don't think people use pool boys anymore except in porno movies. Times are tough for lonely housewives.”

Sarah sighed theatrically. “It wouldn't matter to me anyway because I'm not one of those women with nothing to do. My day is already pretty full. Speaking of full days, how'd yours go?”

“It started off pretty well. I got some work done at my office in the morning.” As much as I ever do anyway. “Then I met with the accountants and that's going to run smoothly, I think.”

“Dad's accountants won't waste your time with a bunch of bullshit,” Sarah said. “They'll just handle it.”

“That's what I wanted to hear,” I said. “The rest of it's not going to be so easy.”

“What do you mean?”

“I met with James Madison for five hours today.”

“Working on some rewrites to the Constitution?”

“I wish,” I said. “I'd get this country straightened out. But unfortunately, it's a different James Madison.”

“What kind of parents would name a child James Madison and what kind of asshole would
call
himself that?”

“Exactly the kind of asshole I have to spend at least the next month working with.”

“A month? Are you kidding?”

“No, I'm not kidding,” I said. “With everything going into the trust, I have to familiarize myself with Sam's business interests. I'll bet even you don't know about all of them.”

“I'm sure I don't,” Sarah said. “I only work for corporate. I don't have anything to do with the holding company. Dad was involved in a ton of deals I know nothing about.”

“Well, there's an entire room full of files,” I said. “I'll be spending more time with Mr. Madison than his wife Dolly.”

“Is that really her name?”

“I wouldn't be surprised.”

Sarah came around the table and put her arms around my neck. “Poor Ward Cleaver, working two jobs so that his beautiful wife can stay home with the kids.”

“The trustee job doesn't actually pay anything.”

“Still, I'm proud of you, Ward.” Sarah used her best Barbara Billingsley voice. “Put on your cardigan sweater and slippers and come back into the bedroom and tell me all about it.”