OCTOBER 1, 2023 – My journal entry for Friday, June 22, 2012 reflected a chronic preoccupation with “Old Joisey”:
Last night I experienced a highly symbolic dream, as so often occurs in my dream world. On this occasion, the subject matter was New Jersey, which has occupied so much of my thoughts over the past couple of months. In this particular sequence, I found myself poring over numerous blueprints of the buildings. Some were quite old and faint while others projected sharp lines and crisp images. The most notable thing [about the blueprints], however, is that they had been cut into large sections, and I was left to piece them together, much as I am having to piece things together in reality. Another interesting aspect of the dream was UB’s presence and indeed, has cooperation in pulling more blueprints out of the drawer of a large cabinet that [in reality] had been maintained by Grandpa.
No doubt the dream had been prompted by groundwork completed by Tom Sullivan since his retention, but I was certain that UB’s cooperation in the dream was the product of wishful thinking, not the foretelling of his change of heart—or mind.
Unfortunately, but not surprising, an already challenging case vis-à-vis UB was now rendered even more complicated given that each of the seven parcels of real estate that UB controlled by his occupancy was titled differently from the others; moreover, over the decades some of the record owners were partnerships (consisting of UB and my grandparents) that had long since been dissolved. One of the parcels UB owned outright. All of the properties were essential to any future disposition (i.e. when UB no longer resided at 42 Lincoln Avenue, either because he moved into assisted living, a nursing home or died) designed to optimize market value. It was a classic case of the whole being far more valuable than the sum of the parts. But each part needed legal “repair.”
To consolidate ownership, we would have to trace the proper disposition of partnership interests and map out the necessary conveyances. It was a tangled mess, but at the end of the analysis, to bring everything current would require UB’s signature on a number of deeds. That necessity was a show stopper if we couldn’t win his cooperation, and the odds of that prospect materializing matched the odds of winning the lottery without a ticket—despite the optimism of my dream.
“What to do,” as Grandpa would preface every monologue about some business problem he’d faced—and solved—in his storied career.
Tom counseled that for starters, we—specifically he—should send a formal letter to UB (by various means to ensure receipt) explaining the circumstances and the solution. We didn’t expect a favorable response or any response, for that matter, but it would establish a record for later use in formal proceedings. This opening round would be followed by a formal demand for an accounting of the trusts and estates for which UB had fiduciary obligations. The ultimate goal would be to petition the court for appointment of me as substitute executor and trustee. In the wings was a plan to wrest control of the administratively defunct LLC that was supposed to be the record owner of the warehouse parcels. By these methods, which had a greater likelihood of success than petitioning for guardianship and conservatorship, we’d encircle UB and accomplish the same objectives of guardianship/conservatorship, including the cut-off of funds to London.
In my years of practicing law, I’d found that in matters involving difficult counter-parties, it helped if such adversaries had a really good lawyer. In many cases it was possible to convert the really good lawyer into a really good ally. If the obstreperous person would never accept reality, established legal authority, sound reasoning, and common sense coming from me or my client, the odds of progress improved if the person’s lawyer could be convinced to see the light. The lawyer, once more fully enlightened, would have far greater credibility than my client or I would ever have with the lawyer’s recalcitrant client. I found too that treating the opposing lawyer as a potential ally from the outset was more fruitful than plunging straight into combat.
So it was with the ever contrarian UB. Neither Tom, Cliff, nor I expected UB to respond to Tom’s letters directly, but if we could apply enough pressure to get UB to hire a lawyer, we’d stand a better chance of getting somewhere.
The problem with this strategy, of course, was that UB thought lawyers were an unnecessary expense and that with a little research at the library he could do just fine representing himself. In this regard he was the classic fool and jackass of the adage, “The person who represents himself has a fool for a client and a jackass for a lawyer.” But it also bolstered UB’s Road Runner profile. Without the aid of a lawyer he was quite capable of erecting barricades that would’ve made him a hero of the Paris Commune.
What Tom and I had in our corner, however, was the indomitable Cliff. He knew what to do.
“We have a couple of choices in town,” he said. “A lawyer named Costello [not his real name] and one named Crook [his real name—I kid the reader not].”
“I like how you’re thinking, Cliff,” I said. “Only you could stand a chance of getting Uncle Bruce to hire his own lawyer whom we can then turn into an ally.”
“Exactly.” Cliff was always a quick study.
“I know Costello. We can work with him.”
“Good, because, how could anyone work with a Crook?”
“I know. How’s that for a lawyer’s name? Can you imagine how it goes for him in court. ‘Your honor, my name is Crook, so I know one when I see one and my client is definitely not a crook!’”
“You’re killin’ me. But all kidding aside, he’s probably related,” I said.
“How’s that?”
“Did you ever hear about Howard Crook up in Hamburg? He lived with his mother, Irene, right next door to our family’s place on the cove.”
“Yeah,” said Cliff. “I actually met him and his mom. Years ago Uncle Bruce invited me up there for the weekend and took me over to meet Irene. Howard was there as well, of course, and was obviously as gay as could be, but Uncle Bruce didn’t seem to want anything to do with him. Howard was friendly enough and showed me around the grounds and the beautiful view.
“Maybe Uncle Bruce didn’t like Howard because Howard was a chain-smoker.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I said. “Uncle Bruce hates smokers. Except how do you explain his infatuation with Alex? He’s a smoker.”
“The world according to Bruce,” said Cliff, using his universal response to the inexplicable. “What can I say? . . . so anyway are you saying Irene and Howard—I think Uncle Bruce told me they’re both dead—were related to Crook the lawyer in Rutherford?”
“I don’t know for sure, but there might be a connection. Howard’s dad, who’d died many, many years ago was somehow related to Grandpa. Howard also had a brother named Warren Holman Crook who died aboard the U.S.S. Juneau in the Battle of Guadalcanal, the same vessel on which the Sullivan Brothers[1] died. Mother told me about the tragedy after we’d paid Irene and Howard a visit and I asked about the photograph I’d seen on display of a guy in a Navy uniform. In any event, the scuttlebutt was that Howard and Warren’s dad was the principal or vice principal of the Rutherford High School and that he’d had an affair with a teacher—this was back in the late 30s. As you can imagine, when word of that scandal hit the streets of Mayberry U.S.A., all hell broke loose over the head of Crook. Grandpa, with a history of helping strayed relatives, stepped up and got Crook and his family out of town and re-situated up in Hamburg. Howard was a kid when all of this went down. Grandpa kind of saved the family, I guess.
“When we were kids visiting our grandparents and Uncle Bruce, we’d go to Hamburg on the weekends. Howard was usually hanging outside, tending to his magnificent gardens. He’d see us and wave hello and invite us over. He was always very kind to us and let us swing on the swing that he’d hung on the huge limb of the enormous oak tree out front, and Jenny and I would take turns swinging way out over the steep bank. I remember looking down at the cove and thinking I was in a seaplane with a perpetually beautiful view of the world.
“Howard had a very cool bunkhouse, as he called it, that he’d decorated with all kinds of cool stuff. I remember best a huge liquor bottle filled with pennies.
“In addition to the beautiful gardens surrounding the house, he had a goldfish pond and drove a small sports car, an MG Midget, I think, and worked in a piano factory across the river[2].
“Irene was as old as Gaga, despite the fact she smoked like a chimney.”
“Interesting story and as always, interesting family. But I guess in the end we don’t want Uncle Bruce to hire a crook for a lawyer, right?”
“Related or unrelated, I couldn’t get used to the idea that either way we’d be dealing with a crook. We’d never be able to take him seriously.”
“I hear ya!” Cliff laughed.
He proceeded to convince and cajole UB that UB needed to hire a lawyer to deal with Tom Sullivan’s formal demands, and that the best lawyer in town was Costello.
It took follow-up on Cliff’s part, but eventually UB made arrangements to meet with Costello. Leaving nothing to chance, Tom got a hold of Costello, outlined the situation, and forwarded copies of the letters he’d sent to UB.
Things then went dark. Tom’s follow-up calls and emails went unanswered until one day he caught Costello off-guard.
Tom called me immediately afterward.
“I finally got a hold of Costello.”
“Great! What did he have to say?”
“He’s not sure he even has a client.”
“What do you mean?”
“He says they met, they talked, he reviewed the letters, but your uncle has never paid the retainer, and until that’s paid, Costello says he’s not representing your uncle.”
“Darn it, Tom. Back to square one,” I said. Only in my dreams, it seemed, would anything new happen in “Old Joisey.”
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
[1] Five brothers from Waterloo, Iowa. No other family in U.S. wartime history suffered such a loss.
[2] According to his obituary in the Hartford Courant, Howard died in 1998 at 72. He was described as “highly skilled in all phases of piano construction, [who] had a great love of art, music, and theater, and was an avid gardener [and] had a fond affection of the animal kingdom.” The obituary also stated that “Mr. Crook was the most saught [sic]after model for many years at the Lyme Academy of Fine Arts in Old Lyme.”
