Power of Attorney
David Colene focused the lobby camera on the prospective clients seated on the couch. The male of the couple stared straight ahead with a dull, empty expression. His graying hair and full beard needed trimming, but underneath, Colene sensed a long, lean face. Late fifties? Tendons showed on the guy’s corded neck, which rose from a starched shirt whose collar was a couple of sizes too large. Completing the outfit was a crooked tie a decade out of style. He’d check the shoes when he saw the guy in person. They always provided insight into character, but so far, this individual looked diminished and rumpled.
Moving the camera’s focus to the woman provided a shock. In Colene’s experience, no one like her had ever crossed his law firm’s oriental rugs. Young enough to be the man’s daughter, purple spiked hair capped a face decorated with two eyebrow rings. A dragon tattoo curled from beneath her scoop neck tee and twisted around her neck. Tattoos covered both arms. Her right thumb worked her cell phone. Her left hand—its wrist encircled by what sparkled like a diamond bracelet—rested on the man’s thigh in a most undaughter-like manner.
Colene jotted a note to look into their relationship. Flicking off the monitor, he buzzed the receptionist. “Please escort Mr. McCree and his companion to my office.” He stood to greet his guests, casting a quick glance at the man’s wingtips—desperately needed polish. The suit made of fine wool hung limply off the man. “Mr. McCree? Ma’am?”
“Seamus, please.” McCree mumbled without making eye contact.
Up close, the companion (“Call me Niki”) smelled like fruit salad and gave off the vibe of a feral cat. Five gold hoops on her right wrist tinkled as she shook hands. She gawped at the hunting prints decorating the wall until Colene gestured toward the informal seating arrangement surrounding the burl-wood coffee table. Niki led McCree past the wingback chairs to the loveseat and settled in tight to him.
Colene checked his notes: Verify purpose. Determine competency. Determine relationship. He cleared his throat. “Mr. McCree, I’d like—”
“Not Mr. McCree. Seamus!” Veins on his neck stood out, and he stared wide-eyed at Colene. “Do you know I played in the North American Soccer League? New York Cosmos. Played next to Franz Beckenbauer. Yes, I did.” He deflated with a sigh. “Too many head balls. Too many.”
The anger shocked Colene. “Pardon me?”
Niki rubbed McCree’s thigh and leaned into him, whispering something Colene couldn’t hear.
McCree relaxed. “I accept your apology.”
Niki rolled her eyes. “He has headaches. And anger issues. Doctors think it’s more likely chronic traumatic encephalopathy than Alzheimer’s.” She didn’t seem to notice she butchered the pronunciation. “He got knocked out a bunch of times. Plus, heading soccer balls starting real young. He’s only fifty-six. Course, they won’t know for sure until he’s,” her voice dropped to a whisper, “autopsied.”
Colene put on his “good friend” smile, felt it pull against the side of his face. “Seamus, my assistant left me notes regarding what you want to discuss, but I’d like to hear directly from you.”
Confusion plastered McCree’s face. Niki spoke. “Seamus don’t feel he can any longer do right by his finances. His son tried to help, and now they ain’t talking to each other.”
“I told you,” Seamus spoke through tight lips, “I want you to do it.”
“No, honey.” She leaned in and pecked his cheek. “I do okay for myself, but I ain’t got the smarts to handle your millions. I brung most of his financial statements. He’s got foreign property I don’t know nothing about. He can’t tell me right, but there’s papers in his safety deposit box. I got his power of attorney right here. And his will. He handwrote that. I get half when . . . well, when the time comes. Here.”
Colene looked through the proffered documents. The power of attorney was dated six months earlier. McCree’s signature looked strong. Notarized by one of Chicago’s top firms. Niki Foster had legal authority. The statements showed mutual funds worth north of ten million.
“Why aren’t you continuing with the firm that prepared your power of attorney?”
“They didn’t treat me nice, and you was recommended by Mrs. Sibley. She has the apartment next to us in the independent living wing.”
Mrs. Sibley was one of those people who looked for the positive in everyone and shared good-news stories on her social media. She’d been a little confused about some of her finances and had come back twice for Colene to explain how they worked. Well worth the extra time since his work for her had generated one of his more robust legerdemains, as he thought of the arrangements that siphoned off a portion of his clients’ assets into his offshore holding company. “She’s a doll.” He smiled warmly. “She’s well, I hope.” Time to check McCree’s competency. “Seamus, you agree with Niki’s assessment?”
Accompanied by the tinkling of the bracelets, she squeezed his thigh and gave him a smile to melt butter.
“Yes,” he said. “Not nice.”
“Seamus,” Colene asked, “what year is it?”
McCree supplied the correct answer.
“And the month?”
“December. All I hear is Christmas music.”
Wrong. Three points. “Could you remember this for me? Helen Smith lives at fifty-three Scrivener Place, Deerfield.” Colene asked the remaining questions in the prescribed order to test dementia. Seamus missed the time question by an hour (three points). He nailed counting backwards from twenty but skipped July and June (four points) when he recited the months backward.
“Last question. Do you remember the name and address I asked you to remember?”
Seamus tucked a corner of his beard into his mouth and chewed. His eyes looked wild, frightened. “Helen? Helen.” Headshakes. “Prime number. Fifty-three. But I don’t . . . I’m sorry. Was it important?”
Sixteen points total. Not Competent. “Seamus, may Niki and I speak alone?”
Colene waited until the receptionist retrieved Seamus to ask, “How long has he been like this?”
“The headaches and anger, for years. He’s still real good with numbers, but he’s losing his smarts fast. What am I gonna do when he goes into the dementia side of that place? They’ll throw me out ’cause I’m too young to live there alone. You seen the will. I get half when he dies, but . . .” She licked her lips and gave him a sideways look. “He runs an hour on his treadmill. Every day. He’ll live for years. He talked about buying me an annuity. I ain’t sure what it is, but it ain’t happened. I can’t wait thirty, forty years.” She seemed to be appraising him. “Mrs. Sibley—now she’s a wonderful woman who knows how to take care of herself—she said I needed the right lawyer to protect me.” Her eyes seemed to grow in excitement. “Can you get me what I deserve?”
“Help me understand your current arrangements with Mr. McCree.”
She looked at the ceiling. “I get a thousand a week, plus room and board, and good health insurance. Of course, I’m also going to be losing my conjugal rights when he has to, you know, be locked up, so he don’t wander off.”
Conjugal rights? “You’re married?”
She spun the diamond bracelet on her wrist. “Good as, except there ain’t no paper says so.”
He made a show of checking his Rolex. “I believe we can help you. May I review this material and present you with a proposal describing how our firm can assist you and Mr. McCree to achieve your goals?”
He offered an appointment a month hence, and with a lot of sighing and multiple checks of his calendar, let her negotiate it to Wednesday of the following week. Always make the pigeon eager for their plucking.
###
Colene found Niki Foster’s phone right where her message suggested it might be, tucked down in the cushions of the office loveseat. Unease, maybe curiosity, at her relationship with McCree caused him to check her contacts list, which only contained McCree, his mother, his son, and a dozen other names. It was the first he had heard of a mother. That could complicate things.
He ran a detailed credit check on McCree, who had indeed played soccer on the US national team and the Cosmos before working on Wall Street. Quit early. Divorced. Moved from New Jersey to Ohio to Michigan. Son lives in Chicago, which explained the move to independent living in that city. Mother lives in Boston.
The financial data Niki had left showed McCree had within the last two years set up a trust fund for his mother and given his now five-year-old granddaughter a couple of square miles of property in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. The most recent change provided his son exactly one dollar and split his estate fifty-fifty between Ms. Niki Foster and various charities. Estate attorneys used the one-dollar provision to fend off suits challenging a will when a natural beneficiary is disinherited. No wonder there had been a split between father and son.
All those changes had occurred prior to the power of attorney. He had been a moderate trader until four months ago. Since then, several bonds had matured but not reinvested, leaving way too much in cash.
The guy was losing it.
Using various proprietary databases and a subscription reverse-directory, Colene researched the other phone contacts. One guy had a long record as a pimp. Two had drug busts. One number linked to the Cook County jail, and another was a home health service agency. A phone call to the agency yielded the information that Niki had lost her job because she failed a drug test. Further digging revealed she had done time for hooking and check kiting. The booking picture was her, same spiked hair and tats.
He leaned back in his leather chair, linked his fingers behind his head, and closed his eyes. What he had was a habitual offender with legal power of attorney over twelve million dollars. He itched with the temptation to pad his offshore accounts.
The woman was as dumb as a stone, although probably a hellcat in the sack. The question was whether McCree still had sharp moments and could throw a spanner into the works. Returning Niki’s phone gave him the perfect excuse to check on their domestic situation in the posh retirement community where they lived.
###
Colene signed in at the<.scan> reception desk and followed a floral-scented corridor in the independent living wing of the facility to its terminus containing suites occupied by McCree and Mrs. Sibley. Niki Foster responded to his knock. A Lycra bodysuit covered most of her tattoos and highlighted every one of her curves.
Her eyebrows rose. “Mr. Colene?”
“Your phone.” He handed her the instrument.
She stepped back to allow him to enter. “I woulda come down to get it.”
The smell of fresh-brewed coffee came from the open kitchen straight ahead. To the left was a large living-dining room containing a Queen Anne cherry table with its leaves removed, two chairs at the table, and two against a wall. Paired leather recliners flanked a matching couch. An enormous, wide-screen TV dominated the opposite wall. English Premiere soccer was on, the sound muted. “I figured I’d stop in and see Mrs. Sibley. Is Mr. McCree around?”
“Mrs. Sibley is in France. Seamus is in the study.”
She led him to a large room with one wall sporting another huge TV, volume low, tuned to the same game. Facing the TV were a treadmill and an elliptical trainer. Pictures of McCree playing soccer decorated the other walls. A poster-sized black and white action photo captivated Colene. The photographer had caught the moment after McCree had headed the ball. Droplets of perspiration sprayed from his long, shaggy, brown hair. The ball showed a slight dent from the impact. Behind McCree’s head was an out-of-focus goal post. A player with a different color jersey was about to slam into McCree.
Niki stood so close to Colene he could feel her heat. “That was just before one of his concussions.”
Working at a standing glass desk, McCree ignored them. Colene looked over McCree’s shoulder at the incomplete crossword puzzle. Clue 1A was “War President.” L I _ _ _ L N. “Lincoln,” Colene tapped the puzzle spot.
McCree ripped the puzzle from the magazine and tore it into pieces. “Out,” he roared and threw the debris at Colene.
McCree’s abrupt change to petulant anger shocked Colene. Given his size and strength, McCree could be a real danger if he attacked someone. Niki pushed herself between them as Colene retreated. She caught McCree’s raised fists. “Shh, shh. It’s all right, honey.” She kissed him full on the mouth, and he relaxed into a rocking chair.
“He tries so hard,” Niki said. She found a magazine, Extreme Sudoku, under the day’s newspaper and flipped to a puzzle. “Try this.” She handed him the mechanical pencil. McCree poked his tongue out the corner of his mouth and scribbled tiny notes in the boxes.
“I’m sorry, Mr. McCree—Seamus,” Colene corrected.
McCree looked up. “Do I know you? I’m sorry if I should. I just . . . Do you know I played in the North American Soccer League? New York Cosmos. Played next to Franz Beckenbauer. Yes, I did.” He deflated with a sigh. “Too many head balls. Too many.”
Same words. “Seamus,” he said. “Tell me about your investments.”
McCree nodded sagely. “Best investment I made was buying Berkshire Hathaway in 1983 at a thousand bucks a share.”
“Great buy!” Colene meant it. “But I meant your current portfolio.”
McCree’s shoulders slumped, his head drooped, his knees flexed. It was like someone had stuck a needle in him and let the air out. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “Niki?”
Niki gripped Colene’s forearm and pulled him across the hall to a bedroom with a king-sized bed, which he tried hard to ignore after she closed the door behind them.
“That picture you was looking at?” She kept her voice low and glanced at the door. “Seamus saved the goal, but the other guy cracked his head into the post. Seamus was out for ten minutes. Ten minutes! And played the rest of the game. Can you believe it? They asked him how many fingers he could see. He guessed two, because they always held up two fingers. Talk about stupid!” She gazed into Colene’s eyes, lightly stroked his arm, and licked her lips. “I’m sorry, it just makes me mad. I stopped by the safety deposit box on the way home.” She removed a set of files hidden under sweaters in the bottom dresser drawer. “Here’s everything I have.” She leaned into him and bussed his cheek. “I think we need to hurry.”
###
Colene recalled his first impression that Niki reminded him of a feral cat. She certainly had her hooks into a clueless McCree. It would almost be criminal if Colene didn’t help himself while helping her. He needed to forget about the promise of her kiss—she was just the kind to hit him up with some trumped-up sexual harassment crap. He’d make sure not to be alone with her again. The safest approach was to get her to sign over the power of attorney.
She wasn’t loyal to McCree—she didn’t deserve his money, but he couldn’t avoid that without her scratching his eyes out. He’d make sure McCree had fine care, even if he stayed in the memory unit for thirty years. Niki would find herself better taken care of than she had ever dreamed. Even the charities McCree chose would eventually get something. The key to making this a win-win-win situation was to pay off Niki up front and get her out of the picture.
The problem was most dementia units required monthly payments. Colene was sure he could negotiate payment for McCree’s continued use of the apartment and eventual stay in the dementia unit using a generous annuity that included cost-of-living increases. If the institution saw a big enough profit, they’d go for it. Given the cost of care and McCree’s young age, he guessed $5 million bucks would cover it. Colene’s commission would be $1.5 million.
Because half of McCree’s estate went to Niki, Colene could justify using $2.5 million to buy her a life annuity. She’d thank him each month when the money arrived—another $750,000 commission to him. But was it worth the risk?
He’d draw up two plans—one strictly by the books, the other following his recent thinking—and see if McCree showed any spark.
###
Niki arrived alone for the scheduled meeting with Colene. “Seamus wasn’t doing good today, so I left him in the lock-down area.”
Colene tried to determine whether she was wearing a bra underneath the blouse with its top three buttons undone. He forced his gaze up to her eyes. She smelled citrus fresh today but looked discouraged. “Lock-down?”
“To keep memory people from wandering away. Seamus got lost once, so I have to leave him there whenever I go out. He’s slipping. This morning, he was calling me by his ex’s name while we were . . . well, before we got out of bed. That’s never happened.”
Colene’s face warmed as he remembered the promise of Niki’s kiss, and he called his administrative assistant to join them at the conference table. Niki kicked off her shoes and tucked her legs under her, showing lots of leg. She tugged her earlobes, drawing his attention to diamond earrings worth at least twenty grand. That woman had done well for herself, lining her nest at McCree’s expense.
Colene pulled one pile of papers toward him, pushing the by-the-books set away. “I’ve drawn up a plan, but I had hoped Mr. McCree could confirm that we’ve accounted for all his assets.”
“He’s too far gone for that. Far as I know, everything is in them files.” She reached past him, brushing his arm with her chest, and tapped the files she had given him last week. “Now, whatcha got?”
Colene made a production of removing the fastener holding the red leather portfolio closed and placing the folder between them on the table, “This is a very complicated situation, what with domestic and foreign assets, Mr. McCree’s potentially extremely long-term care needs, and your needs as well. How his care plays out could have a significant negative impact on your personal situation with ramifications for cash flow and asset growth.”
Her eyes glazed as words rolled off his tongue. The woman kept nodding, probably embarrassed to admit it was all gobbledygook to her. After more than two minutes, she grabbed the portfolio. “How about we cut to the chase? Tell me what this means for me . . . and for Seamus.”
He put on his winningest smile, thought about touching her arm, but then remembered why he’d asked his AA to join them. “Now don’t you worry. I’m sure you’ll be pleased with the arrangements.” He described how they could use an annuity to guarantee McCree’s care in the facility.
“He’d always have a place there?” Her eyes shone with excitement.
“That guarantee costs five million dollars.” At her expected gasp, he held up a finger to forestall her objections. “This way, we free up the remainder of his estate to provide for you.”
She pulled her bottom lip up over her top lip. “I don’t understand that.”
“We’ll trifurcate Mr. McCree’s assets. Under the current will, half of his estate goes to you. By financing his long-term care needs up front, we satisfy your fiduciary responsibilities to manage Mr. McCree’s assets to ensure his well-being. Rather than waiting until his actual death to allocate the remainder of his estate, we do that now. We are still unsure of the value of the foreign assets, but given a conservative accounting, we know Mr. McCree is worth over ten million. Setting aside the five million for his continuing lifetime care leaves five million, half of which is yours. My proposal is to immediately allocate your half to you.” Making sure he had her full attention, he delivered the baited hook. “That’s two and a half million for you. Today. Right?”
Her eyes widened. “Wow.”
“You’ve already said you don’t want to be managing millions, so we’ll buy a similar annuity for you.” He shifted through the pile of papers and pulled out the annuity quote he had secured. “Your initial payment would be just north of twelve thousand dollars.”
Her expression soured. “Seamus pays me way more than that now. Plus health insurance. And I don’t have no living expenses.”
The AA recognized Niki’s misunderstanding before Colene did. “Ms. Foster,” she said. “What Mr. Colene means is that’s twelve thousand a month.”
“Oh?” A smile crept onto her face. “Oh!”
“From that, we have to pay for your medical insurance,” Colene added. “After Mr. McCree requires full institutionalization, we’d need to cover rent. But the annual total is almost a hundred and fifty thousand a year—before taxes, of course. And it goes up each year by three percent.”
“You can do that? It’s legal?”
He manufactured the brilliant smile again. “With your power of attorney, you can do this all yourself. Or, if you want to make it easier, you can sign the power of attorney over to me, and I’ll take care of the details. I’ll put everything in a trust for you and administer it, so you don’t have to worry. We’ll place Mr. McCree’s residual assets in domestic and tax-advantaged offshore holding accounts.”
“I wouldn’t know nothing about that.”
Well, duh. “That’s why we’ll handle those details for you as part of our annual retainer.”
Confusion etched her face. “Retainer?”
“Tax laws change. Frequently.” Blathering on about monitoring investments, accounting, tax filings, fixed costs, variable costs, he retrieved another schedule and placed it in front of her. “It’s all here.”
She had the deer-in-the-headlights look. Per his plan. Now was the time for his ultimate gamble. “I know there’s a lot here. Perhaps you’d like to take it home? Read it to determine if you have questions? Show it all to Mr. McCree if you think he’d be interested.”
“I don’t read so good. Just tell me in English what I’m signing.”
“Sure. Sure.” He could taste how close this was to working. “This one allows us to officially implement the plan. The cost to do all this work . . .” he riffled through the folder, letting the pages tick against each other, setting up a mini-breeze to illustrate how much effort this took, “. . . is a flat fee of one hundred thousand dollars.”
When she did not object, he continued. “We’ll buy the annuities for Mr. McCree and yourself and invest the remaining assets in trusts.”
She licked her lips. Colene figured she, too, could taste the payoff. “All that,” she said, “for only a hundred grand?”
“The upfront fee. As I mentioned, we’ll incur ongoing fees to administer the trusts once they’re set up. That includes researching and implementing appropriate offshore tax-limiting opportunities to make sure the money goes to you and not Uncle Sam.”
She nodded, as if she remembered they had discussed the fees. “There’s nothing illegal about these trusts? I don’t want to get involved in nothing illegal.” She leaned back, stretching the blouse tight across her chest. “Those days are past.”
“It’s all here.” He shifted his bulk in the chair and counseled himself to silence.
“Where do I sign?”
He had marked each signature spot with a transparent “sign here” sticker. His AA witnessed the parts that required notarization, and he sent Niki away with the suggestion she store her copies in her safe deposit box.
###
Three weeks later, Colene let Niki and McCree into his office. McCree looked shabby and smelled like he hadn’t bathed in a week. His eyes never left the rug. Niki all but ignored McCree, and Colene wondered if she’d take off, now that she had everything she could get from the schmo. That might be a good thing.
He handed Niki the copy of her annuity and a checkbook and credit card to access her money. She leafed through the material, now patting McCree like he was a dog.
Even dogs have better memories.
Niki smiled. “Then we’re done.”
McCree rose and pointed a finger at Colene’s heart. “Do you recall at our first meeting, you asked me to remember something?”
Colene felt paralyzed by the strength of McCree’s blue-eyed stare. He wanted this loon out.
“Helen Smith,” McCree said, “lives at fifty-three Scrivener Place, Deerfield. Ring a bell? I fed you that prime number nonsense, and I screwed up the time, date, and months of the year so you’d think I was incompetent.”
Angry shouting penetrated the office walls. Niki flashed a badge at him. “FBI. Agent Prescott. We have a federal warrant for your arrest.” She opened the door to two burly agents who yanked Colene to his feet and slapped old-fashioned cuffs on his wrists. He choked down bile searing his throat.
Niki removed the wig of purple spiked hair, revealing a buzz cut. “That feels better. I can’t wait to remove those piercings and wash off these God-awful tattoos.”
The first words Colene managed were, “I don’t understand.”
“Seamus?” She beamed at McCree.
“When Agent Prescott and the FBI asked if I would help with this sting, I couldn’t say yes fast enough. What I find most despicable is your abuse of fiduciary duty. You believed we,” he pointed to himself and Niki, “were two incompetent sheep you could shear. Niki, too stupid to understand your legal maneuvering. Me, mentally out of it.
“Those annuities you bought? Unsuitable, and you didn’t disclose the millions you earned in commissions. You sold my index funds and bought front-end load funds, earning yourself more undisclosed commissions. At every opportunity, you lined your pockets at my expense. And then there’s the grand larceny and money laundering. You thought Niki didn’t know about my property in Spain, since I hadn’t listed it on the material she gave you, so you transferred it to an outfit you control in the Cayman Islands. Not to mention—”
“Who. Are. You?” Colene gasped for air like a flounder hauled from the water and dumped on the pier.
“A financial crimes consultant and one hell of a first-time actor, wouldn’t you say? A judge approved me to follow every electronic move you made. The insurance company and mutual funds happily cooperated after we provided documentation of your chicanery. They set up bogus transactions to follow the money trail to your Cayman Islands accounts. With that information, we can seek full restitution for Mrs. Sibley and dozens of others.”
Agent Prescott took his arm. “I love it when justice is served. Enjoy your perp walk. Mrs. Sibley certainly will. She’s the doll who alerted the FBI, and she’s waiting outside to post it to her social media accounts.”
THE END