resistance.”
“The resistance has already started.”
He smiled a lawyer smile. “And due to the expenses we’re incurring, and the nature of the job, this first paper is to create an escrow account with sufficient funds to cover our bills.”
“No problem,” I said. That was probably the first thing they teach in lawyer schools, to charge up front if the client is bankrupting himself. I changed the amount from two million dollars to five million.
“The two million was meant to be more than enough,” he said. “Anything unused will just go back into the main estate.”
“We don’t know what might happen these next couple weeks. Let’s be very generous, just in case.”
“Yes, sir. These papers create a single trust, which all the assets will be assigned to. It’s in your name to begin with. These are the papers that will transfer the trust to the foundation. You can sign those when you’re ready.”
“I won’t sign those yet.” That would be the crucial moment. “What is the trust called?”
“I’ve put down Jason Boyer Asset Trust as the name.”
I found the page where that was written and crossed it out. Above the line I wrote, Trust for the Termination of Boyer Family Power and Riches.
“Let’s go with that,” I said.
“The name is public information, Mr. Boyer.”
“I know.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And these are all the specific assets?”
“Yes, sir,” he said. “We got as many as we could. These are transfers designed to avoid sales and capital gains taxes whenever possible. There will be some taxes.”
“Which trust includes my house?”
“Let’s see.” He riffled for just a moment. “This one.” It was the trust that also owned the sailboat and the cars and furniture and all my personal assets. “There is a waiver for your wife to sign, if she would.”
“I don’t think she will.”
“That’s a sword hanging over the whole thing. She can contest this transfer.”
“We’ll proceed anyway.”
“And as I said before, if she files for divorce, all of this can be delayed or even halted.”
“I’m trying,” I said. To do his job, he needed to know how it was. But I didn’t like discussing it.
“Yes, sir. I just want to make sure you understand that she is the biggest threat to your plans.”
“I understand.”
He understood that he was not to press the subject. “And this is a power of attorney. It gives our firm the right to conduct transactions on your behalf for the sole purpose of moving assets into the main trust. It’s to prevent delays when we need ancillary papers signed.”
I was reading the fine print. “No. I want to do my own signing.”
“Yes, sir. We’ll keep some couriers available if we need to bring papers to you quickly.”
We got to work. Pamela only interrupted one time.
“Fred’s on the phone,” she said.
“Tell him I’m busy signing lots of papers.”
“Do you really want me to?”
“No.” I picked up my phone. “Yes?”
Fred’s voice came out of the receiver like an earthquake. “I want to know if you’ll change your mind.” That was all he said.
“I won’t.”
The line went dead.
We trudged on through the papers, and it was after eleven when we finished.
“Am I free to discuss this with Nathan Kern?” Jacob asked.
“Sure. It’ll all be his in another week.”
“As long as Mrs. Boyer doesn’t interfere.”
“Whatever. Go ahead and brief him on the whole thing, and keep him updated if anything new happens.”
I gave him a five-minute head start, and then I fled my office and returned to the streets, far different now than twelve hours before. The sidewalks were full and the restaurants were crowded. I stopped at a crammed diner. Everyone in the place got a weekly paycheck and lived off it.
“You know who you look like?” a voice said. I looked up. The waitress was waiting for my order.
“Who?”
“Jason Boyer, that millionaire.”
I smiled. “People have been saying that all weekend.”
After lunch I bought a newspaper. The state senate impeachment posse was in full pursuit of the governor. The editorial was a call for him to step down. There was a picture of me on the front cover. I wandered back toward the office. Two women on the sidewalk stared at me and whispered together.
It was spooking me. I didn’t like this feeling of being noticed and recognized. I thought about Fred and his handkerchief and his hand in the drawer. I thought about Clinton Grainger, unarmed.
I found a gun store.
I knew nothing about guns. I told the man I was working late more often and I didn’t like walking the streets at night. He told me what I wanted, an automatic pistol that he had in the back.
And there were waiting periods and background checks. I gave him my Jeff Benson driver’s license for the transaction. He studied it very carefully and decided he could trust me. He’d let me take the gun now, and he’d take care of the background checks later. He was so helpful.
I said I wanted to try it. He didn’t have a place-it took a lot of expense and licenses to run a shooting range, but maybe I could just put a couple bullets into a block of wood he had. The block had a lot of holes already and I added two more. It’s not hard to fire a gun.
I didn’t want to carry it in my pocket, so he showed me some holsters, the kind worn under a suit jacket. Of course, I’d need a concealed gun permit to use it. I told him I’d get the permit before I used the holster.
It was all easy to do, especially with such an accommodating salesperson. He smiled just like we were old friends as he handed me back the driver’s license, less the three hundred-dollar bills that had been clipped onto it. The bulge under my left arm hardly showed.
“I am not here,” I said to Pamela. “Completely not here.”
“Yes, sir.”
I closed my door. I could still back out. I could call Jacob and tell him to shred the papers. I could apologize to Fred. As long as I had the money, he’d be my friend no matter what I did.
As long as I had the money, Katie would be my loving wife.
“Katie, I’ve changed my mind. I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?”
“Oh, Jason! Of course! I love you, dear! We are keeping the house, aren’t we? And all the money?”
No, I couldn’t do it.
That brief moment of indecision was very short, about the length of time it would take a person in the lobby downstairs to see me come in from lunch, maybe make a short telephone call, and ride the next elevator up to the top floor. There was a commotion in the outer office.
My door opened. Pamela was trying to warn me on the intercom and also stop the intruder, but he was much bigger than she was.
“Jason Boyer.” he said. Shabby black suit stuffed with muscle and fat, greasy cheeks, ragged dark hair-most bouncers were better dressed.
I stood up. “Of course I am.”
“I’m serving you papers that your wife, Katherine Boyer, is suing for divorce.”
He had laid a large envelope on my desk. It would have been a cheap thrill to hit him, to punch him in the face, but it would have just made it all worse.
“Get out,” I said.
But he had more words to say. “By court order you are specifically prohibited from selling or liquidating any
