OCTOBER 7, 2023 – UB’s adjustment to the CareOne transitional facility in Paramus was rocky at best. The day after my initial visit there, I received a call that UB had hauled off and hit another resident—a big no-no to say the least and a potential ticket for UB’s ouster. But quick intervention by Cliff and heavy lobbying of Judy with whom Cliff had astutely established a preemptive rapport, salvaged UB’s prospects. If Cliff was UB’s guardian angel outside CareOne, Judy was our savior inside the facility.
But her phone call a few days later rattled me.
“I just thought I should alert you,” she said, “that two gentlemen dressed in dark suits paid your uncle a visit this afternoon. It was very hush-hush off in the visitor’s corner, and when I asked what it was all about, they said something about a power of attorney. One of the gentleman said he was your uncle’s lawyer. The other one said he was with Wells Fargo. They gave me their business cards.”
After thanking Judy for the alert, I sounded the alarm by calling Cliff, then Tom Sullivan.
“This doesn’t sound good,” said Tom. To say the least. This was an “all hands on deck” development, and whatever skullduggery was in motion, we needed to intervene as quickly as possible.
As matters unfolded, however, this unsettling turn of events, initiated by the “man with Wells Fargo” and reported by Judy, proved to be a godsend.
Cliff dropped everything to rush up to CareOne, grab UB by the lapels of his grimy tan sport jacket and shake critical intel out of his mouth.
“I would’ve grabbed him by his red tie,” laughed Cliff, “except I knew it was a clip-on. I suppose I could’ve yanked him by the hair, as well, but first I’d have to knock off his BOO-ray and what would I find underneath? Oh yeah—his toupee! . . . Beep-beep, by the way.” By this time we were both howling with laughter despite the gravity of the matter.
The upshot, thanks to quick maneuvering on the part of Cliff and Tom, however, was that what had appeared to be a slick scam by a pair of con-artists in “dark suits” transformed itself into a miracle.
Several years before, UB’s long-time brokerage firm had been acquired by Wells Fargo. His individual stock broker—the one who’d showered UB with gifts over the years—had retired. The broker’s accounts, including UB’s, had been assigned to the man whom Judy had observed in the visitor’s corner at CareOne. The other gentleman “in a dark suit” reported by Judy was a “retail strip mall” lawyer[1] to whom the “man from Wells Fargo” referred business.
The Wells Fargo brokerage man was operating innocently enough. When he heard that UB had been hospitalized under emergency circumstances and was in the transitional care unit at CareOne, he took well-intentioned initiative. What UB had divulged was that he had only “distant family who weren’t in the picture,” none of whom would be interested in holding UB’s power of attorney. And of course, there was no mention of Cliff or, fortunately, of Angelo . . . let alone of Alex. But Alex was a Serbian émigré living in far off London, of course, and granting him the power of attorney would be impractical. Besides, UB knew it would be a mistake to mention Alex to his broker. UB’s cash transmittals to Alex had always been hidden from UB’s broker.
Thanks to Judy’s request for business cards and Cliff’s independent interrogation session with UB, I got in contact with “the man from Wells Fargo” and told him, “Stop! Do not take any further action whatsoever without my full knowledge and approval.”
I had no legal standing to issue such a directive, but I gained the broker’s confidence by inundating him with my credentials—my familial relationship with UB and the full identity of UB’s “distant family”; the relevant elements of my curriculum vitae—underscoring my former employment in the Wells Fargo corporate trust department and my long-standing portfolio of legal engagements by the bank since; and my detailed knowledge of UB’s “chaotic life-style.” I went whole hog and described UB’s ATM relationship with Alex. To clinch the impact of my outburst, I said that once the family’s lawyer had effectuated my full control over UB’s assets, “I had no present intent to move his investments from Wells Fargo.” My not-so-veiled message was, “If you cooperate with me, I’ll treat you accordingly.”
Years before in my professional work, I’d learned the fundamental lesson of business relationships: always be attuned to how people are compensated.
It worked. The “retail strip small” lawyer was dropped like a rock. Tom Sullivan, meanwhile dropped his other work like a pile of stones and prepared a power of attorney. We would leverage the serendipitous progress that the Wells Fargo broker had made in convincing UB of the need to grant a power of attorney. Further, I enlisted the broker’s help in persuading UB to name Nina—not me.
Ever since the Great Fire, UB had been wary of me at best and hostile at worst. Any suggestion that I should be the one to hold the power of attorney would trigger resistance and squander the progress made thus far. Moreover, even in his better moments or to evade immediate capture, UB would agree to surrender at 10:00 in the morning and announce by lunchtime the renewal of hostilities. Better to leave me out of the power of attorney equation altogether.
Over the years, UB had perennially engaged Nina up one path of argument and down another, all relating to the upkeep of Hamburg. As a free-lance violinist and contractor in Boston, she was in perpetual demand with crazy hours, and as her husband Dean became more disabled by MS, Nina had to devote more time to his care. She cherished her summer weekend escapes to Hamburg, two hours from her home. UB’s Martian ideas drove her to distraction and often overshadowed her enjoyment of the place. However much they’d argue about Hamburg and as frustrated as she was with UB, Nina remained in good stead with him. Besides, he was far more impressed that she’d graduated from law school than he was with the fact I’d been in practice for over 30 years. He also appreciated her getting him tickets to see her play with the Boston Pops every year in Newark and on the rare occasion when he ventured to Connecticut, he liked her taking him to the Goodspeed Opera House in East Haddam, just up the river from Hamburg.
Before UB could change his mind, Tom and the Wells Fargo broker got the Road Runner to grant Nina the power of attorney. It was only the first step in imposing order after decades of chaos, neglect, and malfeasance, but it was a big step.
Yet . . . “It takes a village,” and in addressing UB’s personal care, it would take a village with Cliff standing in the main square. The progression started with our need to transition UB to assisted living, not the CareOne nursing home. Forcing him into the latter facility, we knew, would not end well for any of us. Given the borough’s helpful categorical prohibition against UB’s return to 42 Baghdad Street, he surrendered to the reality that now even he could see: assisted living was his only option. When UB asked how much it would cost, I told him, “You can easily afford it.” He surprised me with his lack of follow-up persistence.
The second half of the challenge presented by assisted living arrangements, however, was CareOne’s acceptance of UB. For the umpty-umpth time, Cliff came to the rescue.
A year or two earlier, Queequeg (See 8/27/23 and 9/28/23 posts) had retired from Cliff’s employ. Fortunately, however, Cliff knew how to reach Queequeg and more important, how to entice him back into service. The job was of the sort for which no other person on the planet would be both qualified and willing to undertake at the price we were prepared to pay (a rate the reader can be assured was considerably less than what UB had been sending to Alex): moving into a spacious assisted living apartment with UB and looking after him 24/7, with only a day or two off each month. To cover his sporadic days of personal time, we’d hire a temporary substitute. Queequeg, of course, knew UB well—knew his antics, his quirks, his volatility, his roaring insanity, but being as cool as a refrigerated and perpetually fresh cucumber, Queequeg was game. The stars were in perfect alignment. Queequeg needed the income. He was single with his only (adult) daughter living some distance away. He’d been renting his living space on a short-term basis. I told him he was hired and immediately completed and submitted the payroll tax forms.
We were in business. Under the cover of Nina’s power of attorney I managed CareOne’s paperwork and payment of the requisite deposit. UB was going on 94—well past the 90-year mark that Cliff and I had established as the deadline for putting an end to chaos, but at least now UB was on a leash. With Queequeg watching UB’s every move and me holding the purse strings, Alex would have to go cold turkey—or find an alternate sugar daddy.
We never again heard from or of the Serbian, and UB never mentioned his name.
What lay ahead, however, was a challenge of staggering magnitude: managing and planning development and disposition of the Rutherford properties that had been under UB’s exclusive dominion and mismanagement for the past 27 years. The ensuing project would tax all my years of experience as a commercial real estate lawyer. Little in my professional life had been as crazy and complicated as the work that awaited.
In this part of the saga, Cliff again would be a central player. It was to be the principal context in which Tom Sullivan, the veteran lawyer in a thousand formidable engagements, would oft repeat, “I don’t know what you’d do without Cliff.”
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
[1] My admittedly somewhat unfair characterization of a struggling lawyer who graduated a year ago near the bottom of the class of a local law school and with a client base consisting of his second cousin’s repeat-offender brother-in-law and teammates from his high school junior varsity football team, and . . . an uncle who works at Wells Fargo; operating out of low rent space squeezed between a computer screen repair shop and a fledgling store featuring frozen tapioca at the local class C strip mall. Or . . . a slickster “liar-lawyer” operating out of the same kind of office as the newbie but for cover from hitmen commissioned by a mobster double-crossed by a client of said slickster liar-lawyer. All in New Jersey of course; never a place like Minnesota.
