The Heir (30 page)

“Melvin wanted the foundation to have the estate.”

“And I was against it.” He took another long minute to think it through. “At least, I requested that he change his will. It was his decision.” He stood and wandered to his shelves; I guess the binders and books represented to him his real love, and he was looking for comfort. “Even now, I still hope there is some other way. I never wanted such a responsibility. Even in a better world, without vice and moral dilemma, it would be crushing. In this world, the entanglements, the compromises . . . I couldn’t, Jason. You more than anyone know how it is.”

“Yes. But I don’t see another way.”

“Break it apart. Sell each business to a different buyer. Please don’t put this burden on the foundation. It would destroy it.”

“It would take years to divest. You’re right; that’s what has to be done. The whole structure has to be demolished. But I can’t do it. I’m not strong enough. You said it yourself—
I have to give it up
— and you’re right about that, too. But you could do it.”

“Take the estate for the purpose of divesting it?” He was back at his desk and he sank into the chair. “It might be possible. I wouldn’t really know how.”

“There are people who do. It’s the will to do it that has to be there.”

“How would you live?” he said. “You need an income.”

“Other people live without inheriting a billion dollars. I can find a way.”

Then he asked the question I was dreading most. “What about Katie?”

“I don’t know.”

What would this do to her? I knew how she would react at first, but then what? I truly didn’t know.

“She’ll hate it. Money has always been so important to her.”

“More important than you? Your marriage?”

“I don’t know. It might be.”

“I’m sorry. Will you ask Fred Spellman to advise you in any of this?”

“Not likely.”

He nodded. “Yes, I agree. If you don’t wish to confide in Fred, I can recommend Jacob Rosenberg. He’s on the board of the foundation and is our legal adviser. He’s an expert in corporate law.”

“How is he on divorce?”

“I hope it won’t come to that.”

“Hope?” I said. “I don’t have much.”

“But you need hope. Everyone does.”

I wasn’t going to answer that. I had what I wanted. It was time to get away before Nathan started digging into the next layer of questions. “I’ll talk to Rosenberg. Thank you.”

“I’ll do anything I can. Anything.”

“You’ve done enough.”

“You have a long life ahead of you,” he said. “This crisis will end—you aren’t thinking that far into the future right now, but the future will come. Jason, I’ve gotten to know you somewhat. You have questions. We can talk about them.”

And I almost did. An image came into my mind, of the churchyard with the ancient trees, and the hallowed church. Death and life together. Nathan could answer those questions, as well.

But this was not the time, and there were lots of hard things still to do today. I left with enough hope to face them.

I used most of it up just getting to the forty-second floor, and I was feeling pretty hopeless again. I had a plan, though, and steps I could take. For the moment I was still rich, so I didn’t mind calling an expensive lawyer on Sunday afternoon and summoning him to my office.

Jacob Rosenberg was actually not much older than myself, and he was also not in a suit. He wore a trendy little goatee beard and mustache thing, and an air of competence that reminded me of George Elias. He was attentive and not distracted by the view.

“Did you know Melvin?” I asked.

“I met him on the board.” He also had an earnestness that reminded me of Nathan.

“And I assume you have an idea of what I’ve inherited from him.”

“Yes, Mr. Boyer. Fairly well.”

“Good. You’ll need to get very familiar.”

This was the point where the decision would start becoming real. I took a deep and lingering look out my magnificent windows. I was distracted by them.

“I won’t discuss reasons,” I said, “but I want to transfer everything to the foundation.”

He sat back in the chair. “Everything?”

“All of it.”

He was still breathless, but he got to work. “Yes, sir. All right. What is your time frame?”

“How long will it take?”

“I won’t know until I see a list of assets.”

“Guess.”

“If we worked very hard, probably one week for most of it.”

That deserved another survey of the panorama. It was getting to be later afternoon. From downtown the highways radiated with light traffic to the neighborhoods beyond. Usually they were lost in the haze but it was the first clear day of October, and I could finally see, farther than I ever had before from that place.

“Make it one week. Start this afternoon.”

“Yes, sir.”

I opened my desk and found the papers George Elias had given me weeks before. The top one was a little worn—the one with the box at the bottom and the ten-digit number in it.

“Take these. I’ll direct George Elias to work with you. His number is in there.”

He looked at the list, quickly and professionally, but his eyes still got big as he went through them.

“It’s a lot of assets,” he said.

“Will there be any problems?”

“I . . . don’t see any so far.” He looked up. “I believe you’ve used some of the cash account for your house and expenses?”

“Yes.”

“Is there anything else I should exclude, besides your personal assets that predate the inheritance?”

I stared out the windows again, but now I was looking at the stone fireplace, the dining room table, the bedroom suite, the cars. Where had they come from? Even the boat.Was there anything that was mine?

“Don’t exclude anything.”

He nodded, still with his eyes on me.

“Mr. Boyer, is your wife in agreement with your plans?”

“We haven’t discussed them yet.”

“I see.”

“Everything is in my name,” I said.

“Yes, but she has common property rights.”

“How will that affect me?”

He was looking through the lists again. “How is the house titled?”

“Through a trust. It’s in my name.”

“That was to keep your wife off the title?”

“That wasn’t the reason. It was better for taxes. And she wasn’t involved in the closing.”

“I understand.” Twice he started a sentence but backed off, trying to find the best words. “How do you think she’ll react when you do discuss your plans?”

“She will not be in agreement.”

“Will she actively work against you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Specifically, would she file for divorce?”

“I guess it’s possible.”

“I see.” The sentence was having a hard time getting out. “It can change everything if she does. It would give her standing to obtain a court injunction against any transfer of assets. Short of a divorce, she could only contest the sale of the house. It’s her residence. Once she files, everything you own can be contested.”

“What if I don’t tell her?”

That took more thought. “I don’t think it would work. The court could possibly intervene retroactively and invalidate the contracts, especially if the assets were still intact. And, Mr. Boyer, you won’t be able to do this secretly. These transactions are going to be public. I think we both know how the news media will react to any news about your family, especially something of this magnitude, and in the middle of all the political scandals going on.”

“Go ahead anyway,” I said. “If we have to deal with divorce proceedings, we will.”

“Yes, sir.” We’d been talking for ten minutes or so, and he allowed himself a brief familiarity. “I hope it won’t come to that.”

“Just be ready for anything.”

31

There was no hope. Now I was speeding down the highway I’d watched from my high tower, peeling off the miles between us. I went through a dozen ways to say it but they were all the same. We had been such partners, even yesterday, and now what? Was there any hope?

I pulled up in front of the house. Whose house was it? Melvin’s or Katie’s? Not mine. Maybe I should just give it to her.

She was in the kitchen with Rosita. They were side by side at the table, papers in front of them, planning the week’s menu.

“Jason!” I’d startled her. “Where have you been all day?”

“Let’s talk,” I said.

She excused herself and we walked together upstairs to my office. She closed the door behind herself. Then we sat awhile quietly, both of us waiting to hear what I would say. The seconds dragged into a minute and then minutes, and finally the silence said what I couldn’t bring myself to say.

“So, what are you going to do?” she said, struggling, through tight lips.

“I’m giving it to the foundation,” I said.

I couldn’t make it any better. The words were hammer strikes against her. “What will we have left?” The words wavered, barely making it through the air between us. All I had for her was more blows.

“Nothing, Katie.”

“The house?”

“Nothing.”

I’d seen two men ruined in just five days, not just their careers but themselves. I’d heard death in their voices and seen it in their eyes. But now, this third time, this voice and these eyes were so precious to me, and the death in them was my death as well as hers. Mine was the fourth life being shattered by my own desperate stupidity.

“No!” The force of her word and the force of her hand against my face were equal.

“Yes.” My cheek stung and I thought she would slap me again. I just waited and didn’t move.

“You liar.” Now the storm broke. “You said I could have this house. You cruel . . . liar!”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry! You gave it to me!”

“It wasn’t mine to give.”

“We could have everything!” She was yelling as loud as she could and still sob at the same time. “Last night we had it all in our hands. There was nothing to stop us. And now, you . . . you fool! I hate you!”

“Don’t,” I said. Everything she’d said was true. How could I have been more cruel to her? Buy a house, Katie. Buy everything! Anything you want! And now . . . what a fool she was to have trusted me.

The door slammed behind her. Some time later I could move again and I opened it and went downstairs. I told Rosita that Katie wouldn’t be down for a while. Then I left. I didn’t take anything.

Eric was not home. That was good. The drive to his apartment hadn’t been long enough. I let myself in and waited. I focused my thoughts on what I would say here—mainly to pull them off of Katie.

There was a little noise from the street, but it was mostly quiet. All I could hear was Katie’s voice. How could I get her out of my ears?

I tried to concentrate on my brother instead.

What would he be like if he’d had more struggle in his life? There were no roots. A good yank would pull the tree right out of the ground, and he’d be getting a real jerk soon. Me.

My cell phone rang.

“Hello, Fred,” I said.

“We need to talk.”

“We sure do,” I said. “I’ll call you this evening sometime. I don’t know when. You should come to my office.”

“I’m in my office now. There’s already been reaction in the state senate leadership. Forrester has been trying a counterattack.”

“I’ll call you later.” That would be another conversation to look forward to.

I waited more. There were no books in the apartment, not even magazines—just all the televisions. The place was swept clean. It was the mirror of his soul, a place to never think. I propped my feet up on the big heavy coffee table. If I stayed long enough, all thought would be sucked out of my own brain. . . .

“Jason?”

I woke with Eric standing in front of me. He was in cool outfit number four—torn jeans, gunmetal sweatshirt. Katie had them listed out on index cards so he’d know what went with what. Or maybe this was outfit number five.

“Hi.” I shook out cobwebs. “I guess I fell asleep.”

“What’s up?”

“Sit down.”

He sat facing me. Even he could tell this was serious.

“Is something wrong?”

“Eric . . . I’ve made some decisions.”

“Okay.” His face lit up. “You’re going to be a senator! Just like—”

“No.”

“Then what?”

It was still so hard to say. “I’m giving it up.”

“What? Giving up what?”

“Everything.”

“I don’t get it.”

It was too hard to do this! He wasn’t opposing me like Katie had, but I was still angry at him for not understanding.

“I’m getting rid of it all! Everything! The money, all of it. I said I would. Back at the beginning, when Fred was reading that stupid will, I said I didn’t want it. Why is it so hard to get anyone to understand?” He was staring at me, his eyes wide. I took a breath.

“I . . . I don’t understand, Jason.”

Two more breaths. “It’s okay.”

“Do you really mean everything?”

“I’m giving it to Nathan Kern and the foundation. They’ll break it up. They’ll sell all the businesses and the stocks, so no one will have it.”

“But last night . . .”

“That’s what did it. Do you have any idea what . . . how evil I was last night?”

“But you were telling him who was in charge.”

“No. You can’t know how it really was.” I was staring at the floor. “No one could.”

“But you don’t have to give up. Just get control.”

I looked back at him. “I know what I have to do.”

Somewhere inside him there was still a deep place, not silted up by hours of highway fumes. “I don’t think you’re evil, Jason. I think you’re better than Melvin. I think you can be better than he was. I think you’re smarter than he was. But if you think something is wrong, then you should do something about it. You always do what you have to.”

That was as painful to hear as Katie’s despair, because it was even more wrong. “Thanks,” I said.

He must have heard what I was thinking. “What does Katie think?”

“She’s angry and she hates me. I don’t know what she’ll do.”

“Man.”

This was much closer than politics and business. This was his parents splitting. Katie was nicer to him than anyone else he knew— he might miss her more than I would. Maybe she should marry him. He’d still have lots of money.