Chapter 9 - The Lawyer's Waiting Room
The elevator opened onto carpet that swallowed sound. I had gotten downtown early and sat in my car in the parking garage for twenty minutes with the heat off, watching the numbers on the dashboard clock change. The building was glass and gray stone, the kind of place with a directory board and a flag out front. My dress from the service was folded in a bag in the back seat. I wore jeans and my dad's old sweater under my coat, and I kept pulling the sleeves down over my hands.
The law office was on the fourth floor behind frosted glass. A bell gave a soft tone when I pushed the door open. The air smelled like coffee and paper. A receptionist looked up from behind a long counter. She was about thirty, hair in a low knot, a navy blazer and a headset resting around her neck.
I told her my name and that I was there about my father's estate. My voice shook a little on his last name. I hated that.
She typed, frowned, then typed again. The keyboard clicks were loud in the quiet. "Can you spell that for me?" she asked.
I did. She read the screen, then looked back at me more carefully. "Can I see an ID?" I slid my driver's license across the counter. She checked it, made a copy, and nodded. "Yes. You're listed here as an interested party," she said. "You called yesterday?"
"Yes," I said. "I need to understand the seating — the service instructions."
She glanced toward a closed hallway. "Mr. Adler will be with you in a few minutes. You can wait over there." She gestured to four chairs by a window that looked out over the street. I sat down and tried not to stare at the diplomas on the wall. My breathing was too fast, so I counted the cars stopping at the light below.
A man came out with a file in his hand ten minutes later. He was in his fifties, gray at the temples, white shirt with the sleeves rolled once, a tie loosened. He held out his hand. "Mr. Adler," he said. "Come on back."
His office was smaller than I expected. A desk, two chairs, a bookshelf full of binders. A family photo faced away from me toward him. He set the file down but didn't open it right away.
"I watched part of the service feed," he said. "The funeral home sends us notice when there's a recorded instruction. I'm sorry about your dad."
I nodded. I didn't trust myself to answer.
He folded his hands. "I need to be clear about something up front. The memorial video is separate from the will. People mix those up. The video is a service instruction. It tells the venue how he wanted the service conducted. The will is a different document, and we haven't read it yet."
"So what he said on the screen," I said, "about removing — that doesn't mean anything legally?"
"It means something," he said. "It just doesn't distribute money by itself. He left a conduct clause tied to the service. If his instructions for the service aren't followed — who is allowed to attend, who is not to be removed — that can affect how I certify conduct for the estate. It's narrow, but it's real."
I thought about the hands on my arms, how they had loosened but not let go. "And I'm allowed to attend?"
He opened the file then and slid a single sheet across the desk, face down. "You are listed as his daughter in his intake notes, and you are on the interested party list for the service. That gives you the right to be present. It doesn't give me authority to read you the will today."
"I don't want the will today," I said quickly. "I just want something in writing that says I have the right to sit in that room. So nobody can tell security to move me again without — without breaking his instructions."
Adler studied me for a second. He pulled a notepad toward him and wrote something down. "I can prepare a letter confirming your status as an interested party and your right to attend the reconvened service under his service instructions. It won't quote the will. It won't promise anything about funds."
"That's all I'm asking for," I said.
He stood and walked to a cabinet and pulled out a calendar. "The formal reading is scheduled for next week. I need you there. Bring ID again. Don't discuss the video with other beneficiaries before then, if you can help it."
May you like
"I won't," I said.
Back in the waiting area, the receptionist printed a slip with the date and time and circled the suite number. The paper shook a little in my hand when I took it. Outside, the elevator doors closed and the city dropped away floor by floor. In the garage, I sat behind the wheel and read the appointment slip three times before I put the car in reverse.
