Chapter 21

Thursday, April 4, 2002

Around three in the morning, JR got up to use the bathroom. In spite of the best intentions, the groan I let out when she moved was relief, not sadness at her departure. My mind was more on automatic than anything else; I simply rolled over onto my stomach and was fast asleep before she'd taken more than a couple of steps.

Someone knocking on the door woke me. I looked and saw JR was gone, so I pulled on some jeans and peeked around the door. "Tom," Uncle Craig said, "you need to get in gear. We have a 9:30 appointment with the lawyers, another meeting at 11:30 at the bank."

I opened the door a little wider. "I didn't think this was a good idea before yesterday. Now..." I shook my head.

"Tom, two things for you to think about. First, like the lawyer said; you'll be twenty-one before any lawsuit has a verdict. So don't worry about it. Also, consider damage control. If you have a pot of money, they are less likely to chase after David's, Joanna's or mine.

"Now, please get ready. We can get something to eat, if you like, on the way."

I really, really thought he was crazy, but what could I do? Be obstinate? What would that prove? Maybe it might prove I was unworthy of his trust, but would I really do that? No, another thing that wasn't in me.

I took a shower, considered the Bic shaver in my toiletry kit, and decided I didn't need it today. In fact, I looked around the hotel room and made up my mind. Uncle Craig wasn't the only one given to snap decisions.

A bit later, wearing Dockers and a nice long-sleeved shirt, I was knocking on Mom's door. She smiled at me, and I smiled back. "I want to go home," I told her without elaboration. "I'm going to pack my things, I'll put them in Uncle Craig's car. After we're done doing the paper signing, I'm going to have him drop me off at home."

"You won't have a car," Mom reminded me, not that I wasn't reminded of it every time I looked around.

"Then I won't have a car. Tony does, I think Sue Ellen does, too. I can get a ride; I've gotten in pretty good shape lately with all of these walks."

Mom nodded. "Actually, it's not a bad idea. Mary was complaining this is a long way from work; even car-pooling with Dave. It's been a pain for me, too. I'll organize something. Expect company before the afternoon's out!"

I did pack, Uncle Craig was only a little curious when I put the suitcase in the back of his rental. We stopped at a supermarket, got some Krispy Kreme doughnuts and coffee; we were munching them before we got on the freeway for downtown.

The lawyer from yesterday, Dwight Hammond, was waiting for us in a meeting room with a heavy wood table of some dark wood. The paneling was dark wood as well. All, I thought, pretty expensive. He'd introduced himself again, this time I made a point of remembering his name. There were three other lawyers as well, who sat at one end of the table, talking to Uncle Craig.

Everyone agreed that my statement about the traffic accident was important, and I should do that first. They had me write it up on a yellow pad, then a notary was called and embossed the original. They would, they told us, type up a copy and send it to us. I asked if I could get a copy to give to the police because they wanted a statement. There was a conference that I wasn't privy to, but then again, neither was Uncle Craig. They handed me several copies of my statement, done on legal paper, before I left. Uncle Craig asked for a few more copies as well, and he got those.

When I was done with that, it was my turn at Uncle Craig's end of the table. They had papers ready for me to sign; I was getting used to how much paperwork was involved with what I thought were the simplest things, like getting out of the hospital, getting Jenny permission to stay with us. This was even more tedious than the latter, not to mention there was no Eleanor Johannsen to distract my attention, either.

Still, a little before eleven we were back outside, blinking in the bright sun. Nothing had actually happened, that had been made clear to me. I'd signed papers to apply to a family court to be emancipated. The most important part about being emancipated was that it meant I could sign legally binding contracts, I was told. Well, most of them. Some things, like buying a house or renting a car, you had to be a certain age; I wouldn't be able to vote yet or buy alcohol or any of that. Once the court signed off on my emancipation, then I would actually be able to deal with Uncle Craig's financial matters on my own; at least the things I was judged old enough for. It seemed to me to be as arbitrary as everything else I'd experienced having to do with the government.

That was fine with me, I was getting more and more sure I didn't want any part of this. The worst thing? I was thinking I didn't want my Uncle to handle my affairs. I liked him, I knew Mom loved him, that Dad liked him a lot. JR hadn't mentioned Uncle Craig last night when she was talking about the people she was not that much of a hurry to get back into bed with, but it didn't strike me that Uncle Craig was going to be an exception to her general statement.

What really bothered me was his cavalier dismissal of what I'd said. Yes, we'd discussed it and he'd seemed to go along at the end. But that was Monday and today was Thursday. Since then, there had been no further discussion of anything I'd said. I was tolerably sure what he was hoping was that it hadn't been but a passing fancy of mine, and if he ignored it, it would go away.

We were early for our meeting at the bank, and Uncle Craig made a little detour to check out the Diamondback's baseball stadium. "I was thinking of getting season tickets," he told me. "You interested?"

I liked baseball, I thought it would be cool, so I agreed. We stopped and went up to the ticket office; I stopped being so agreeable when I saw what a season ticket cost. In fact, I told him that I'd pass, thanks. Nearly a thousand dollars a ticket? Even if it was a bunch of tickets? Uncle Craig bought two.

Then it was bank time and that was as eye opening as everything else I'd ever seen or done.

Plain business utilitarian in the outer areas, the higher we moved, the finer the office, until finally we were in a small conference room, every bit as well appointed as we'd seen in the law offices. It seemed like lawyers flaunted their wealth, and bankers were embarrassed by it.

And, unlike the lawyers, the bank people had no idea what Uncle Craig wanted. "My name is Craig Summers, I wish to a open an investment account," he'd said repeatedly. "Wells Fargo in Los Angeles was supposed to have notified you about this." Then they would ask him how much money the account would be for, then they would politely excuse themselves and seek guidance from someone higher up the food chain when they heard him answer "Around a hundred and fifty million."

While we were sitting in yet another conference room, I told Uncle Craig that it didn't appear as though they believed him.

"Probably not. On the other hand, I'm in slacks and a nice shirt, and you're not dressed like a Goth. It's something you need to learn, Tom, as early as possible. At some point we will find someone who knows the score; at that point, you will see some serious ass-kissing and apologies. The sooner you learn to deal with that sort of thing, the better. At this level, it is simply a fact of life."

Then he grinned. "Of course, at some point in time, if they continue to be total morons, I will reach the end of my patience and we'll try another bank."

Another trip, back to the elevators and up to more sumptuous offices, a smiling young man who shook our hands, asked for Craig's driver's license and left at once. He wasn't gone long, and when he handed my Uncle's license back, he told us someone would be with us shortly.

A bit later, a man in a suit, more hand shakes. He told us his name was Gavin Henderson, he apologized profusely, promised imminent job action against those who had misunderstood Uncle Craig's request. In short, Uncle Craig was right.

After about five minutes of that, Uncle Craig waved his hand.

"A hundred and fifty million dollars invested in the pathetic two and a quarter percent you offer on straight savings would have earned me $427 in the last half hour. Time, sir, is money. Time to get down to the matter at hand."

"You want to open an investment account?" Mr. Henderson inquired.

"What I want is to transfer a portfolio that belongs to my nephew here, from our California branch, to Phoenix. We are going to be relocating to Phoenix from LA in the next few weeks, there will be quite a bit more flowing, this is just the start."

Mr. Henderson started another round of thanks and apologies; Uncle Craig simply cut him off. "Enough! You've said it already. Right now, what I want to see are assholes and elbows, working on the issues at hand.

"Tom has applied for emancipation, I expect that to be complete in four to six weeks. From now to then, you'll have fiduciary responsibility for his account. Tom Ferguson might be young, be he's an incredibly capable individual. I would suggest that you don't start out by shifting the money around and running up transaction fees."

The banker nodded. It was obvious that Uncle Craig had won whatever battle he'd been fighting. The man was now focused and intent, as they went over the details. Phone calls were made, papers were faxed from LA to Phoenix. I'm not sure where they called for take out, but lunch was steak and vegetables, a glass of wine for Uncle Craig, a glass of tea for me.

After lunch, Uncle Craig got to the last important part of the business. "We need a capable account executive, one that can handle the day to day details, until Tom gets the emancipation issue cleared up."

Mr. Henderson looked at Uncle Craig carefully. "You would not be doing that?"

"No, once Tom has signature authority, it will be up to him to decide who will administer the portfolio. In the meantime, I want him to deal with you."

I saw the gleam in Mr. Henderson's eye; I mentally shook my head. I didn't like him either.

"What's an account executive?" I asked.

"The individual at the bank who would supervise the handling of your portfolio," Mr. Henderson told me.

"Think of them for the next few weeks as your check book," Uncle Craig added. "It should be an interesting relationship."

Never ever, I thought, forget that Uncle Craig wasn't stupid; that he didn't have his own agenda. It seemed pretty clear to me that Uncle Craig believed in learning by doing, that and toss you into the shark infested water to see if you can learn to swim. Would I do that with so much money involved? I didn't think so. Then, what was he trying to accomplish?

I half listened to the two adults talking about this or that person, while I mused on why Uncle Craig, who, he had told me, was interested in running up as many points in the game as he could, was now willing to trust me with more money than most people could ever dream of having. There absolutely, positively had to be a reason, and that reason just as assuredly had to involve him winning big.

The two of them had started writing names down on a list making pluses and minuses after each.

"Umm," I said, not entirely confident about interrupting them, "Do I get a say in this?"

"Oh, you have the final say, Tom," Uncle Craig told me.

"Cool!" I said with a fake smile. "Why don't we just invite them all in here, have each say a few words about themselves, and I'll pick. Unless, of course, your account executives have something more important to do than deal with already, than my portfolio." I kept my smile pasted on my face, remembering Melinda Carter's expression, just after I told her I'd forgotten her name.

"We'd be wasting a lot of people's time," Uncle Craig said mildly, "Why don't you let us narrow the field a little first?"

I let my smile go, frowned slightly. "So, I just get to approve, not pick?"

Mr. Henderson spoke up, "Well, I think young Tom's idea isn't bad at all. I'm sure you know, Craig, how important personal chemistry is in relationships like this."

I could sense Uncle Craig's mild tension at the word 'chemistry' and then 'relationships.' It was his fault; he'd used the word first.

I made up my mind. Unless all the account executives were male, fat or ugly women, I was going to pick a woman. And I was not, under any circumstances, going to feel the least sexual interest in her. None.

And so, it came to pass about a half hour later. One by one people came in, introduced themselves. I made my own notes, not plusses and minuses, but Y or N. Exactly two of the account executives caught my eye.

Rita Collingworth was a slight woman with light brown hair, and piercing blue eyes. She was nicely dressed in a knee length skirt and a navy blouse embroidered with bright flowers. From the instant I laid eyes on her, sparks were flying in the room. If she'd had been at Sue Ellen's party, I would have been panting at her feet in seconds, even if she was probably twice my age. I wrote down four N's after her name, even if I gave her a mental 'two thumbs up'.

Later, another woman came in. She was rather tall, perhaps five eleven. She had raven black hair, dark brown eyes, and was wearing a black dress with a short dark jacket. It was hard to tell much about her breasts, but they didn't seem to be large or small. Miriam Goldberg spoke as confidently as any of the others, but there was no list of great achievements that had been the hallmark of other presentations. She simply reported that she worked on 'small investor accounts' and that she enjoyed it thoroughly.

More important to me, was the fact that there were zero sparks. In fact, it was almost the opposite of Rita; Miriam seemed to have a wall around her, a wall that reminded me a little of the same wary caution that Jenny had had the first day I'd met her. Maybe, I realized, Miriam was a lot like Jenny. Tall and dark. Larger breasts, I thought, but nothing like Sue Ellen; probably nothing like Marsha, either.

Miriam left and Uncle Craig looked at Mr. Henderson. "There are a couple I'd like to have back, to re-interview," my Uncle said.

Mr. Henderson looked at me and I simply shook my head. "Miriam Goldberg. I don't think we need to waste anyone else's time." I paused, sought a bit of information from my pack rat memory. "Unless you think she might not be able to make the jump to handle a larger account?"

The banker shook his head. "No, Miri is, if anything, under-utilized. She likes working with small accounts, she is really good at it, and her clients really like her. The other account execs want to work with larger, splashier investors and tend to push the smaller ones off on her. Miriam is content to do a good job for her clients and for the bank."

I wondered if the man had any idea what he'd just said, in real terms.

"Her then," I told him confidently, then I looked at Uncle Craig, who shrugged.

I decided that it wouldn't hurt to mollify my Uncle a bit. "Could we have Ms. Goldberg back in? I'd like to ask a few more questions."

A minute later, she was back, her attention went to Mr. Henderson, who was obviously her boss. I'd just sat silently before, the only person who had spoken was Mr. Henderson, who had simply asked her to introduce herself and talk about her work.

"I'm Tom Ferguson," I said, standing up, proffering my hand for her to shake.

She looked at me, then at my hand. She wasn't reluctant to take it, but it was obviously something she hadn't expected.

"In a few weeks, I will be given the authority to manage my own portfolio," I went on. "I was wondering if you'd like to take responsibility for managing it for me until then?"

She nodded without hesitation. "I enjoy helping my clients realize their investment dreams," she told me, obviously a rote, stock phrase.

"I think you will find," I said wryly, "that my dreams have been realized. The question in front of me is what do I want to do with the responsibility and opportunity that has been handed to me?"

Mr. Henderson spoke up. "A hundred and fifty million dollar portfolio, Miri." He gestured at Uncle Craig. "Right now, Craig Summers has been managing it. He is in the process of relocating to the Phoenix area, with about seven times that amount in play; this will give him a little less to worry about."

Maybe I would have noticed it if Uncle Craig hadn't spoken about it before; you'd like to think you'd notice when someone is kissing your ass. The big banker guy certainly was kissing mine, and a whole lot more effectively than he'd done earlier with Uncle Craig.

Miriam took the news without batting an eye. Instead, she turned back to me. "Would you like to spend some time discussing what you are looking for?"

"I would," I told her. "What have you got on the schedule for the rest of the day?"

"Research. I'd be happy to talk to you as long as you like."

"I have some errands I have to run," I told her. "Do you have a car?"

Miriam nodded.

"Would you be willing to chauffeur me around? We can talk and I can take care of my errands at the same time."

Again she looked at the boss banker who nodded. "Sure, no problem."

"I'm going to spend some money, start small, go up from there," I told her. "For one thing, I need a new car."

Uncle Craig started to speak, but I simply met his eyes and willed him to be quiet. Something worked; he closed his mouth.

"You can take care of the paper signing and all of that, right?" I pushed the woman.

"It would be part of Ms. Goldberg's duties," the boss banker confirmed, "until your emancipation is signed off by the court."

"Cool," I said, knowing that every time I said that word, every adult in hearing winced.

"You can either drop my suitcase back at the house, Craig, or deliver it back to the hotel; although I do believe Mom was planning on checking out this afternoon. You might want to check with her first."

I got up. "Ms. Goldberg, why don't we go to your desk, and you do what you need to do to be out of the office for the rest of the afternoon. I have to make a few phone calls, then I'll be ready."

She nodded, watching me with curiosity.

She led me out of the office, and I smiled as the conference room door closed behind me, leaving Uncle Craig alone with the banker. I would probably never know for sure what was said in there, but I could be pretty sure of the outlines. There was no chance I was going to be allowed to do anything 'rash'.

I stood a few feet away from Miriam's desk. It was in something that was really just an elaborate cubical, for all that it had floor to ceiling panels. "I'd like to talk to a fireman, then I need to talk to a policeman. If I can get in to see either of them, we'll do that first. Last on the list is buying a car."

She nodded, and I pulled out the cell phone and dialed Johnnie Dugan's number off his card.

"Dugan, here," the familiar gravel rasp answered.

"Mr. Dugan, Tom Ferguson. You remember, from yesterday."

He laughed. "I'm not the one with messed up short term memory, Tom. What can I do for you?"

"Do you have some time this afternoon we could talk for a few minutes?"

"Right now, I have my feet up on my desk. Had a session this morning with some rookie firemen." He laughed again, "Got my equipment all cleaned and stowed neat after yesterday. Lord, I love rookies! Sure, Tom, come on in. I'm downtown." He gave me the address and I wrote it down on the card.

Then I dialed the number Officer Moss had given me. I was told he wasn't in, but when I told the man on the other end that Officer Moss had wanted me to fill out a report on the accident yesterday, I was switched to a detective.

"Harris," a familiar voice said.

"Detective, this is Tom Ferguson. Officer Moss asked me to come in with a report on what I remembered from yesterday from the automobile accident I was in. I gave a statement to our lawyer, they say I can use that. I'd like to come in with it."

"After three," the Detective advised without hesitation. "Between three and five, the main police building downtown."

I told him I'd be there, found that Miriam was ready. She led me down into a subbasement parking structure; she drove a newer version of the Camry that had been wrecked the day before. I told her where I wanted to go, and she just started the car and drove there.

"Please, come along," I asked her when we arrived at the fire station. We walked inside; I don't know about Miriam, but I was a little nervous. Almost at once someone asked Miriam what she wanted and I answered that I was there to see Johnnie Dugan.

I saw the fireman look me up and down and saw him nod. A minute later, we were ushered into a large room filled with every sort of tool and cutting device known to man. Johnnie Dugan was sitting at a desk in a corner, talking on the phone. He saw me, waved, and finished up. He grabbed something from his desk, and handed it to me when I got to him.