will change, I thought.
“And?” I asked.
“The house and the building go to you outright. Ten million dollars will fund the Ezra Pickens Charitable Foundation. You will have a seat on the board. Fifteen million dollars goes into trust for you. Taxes take the rest.”
I was stunned. “What about Jean?” I asked.
“Jean gets nothing,” Hambly stated, then sniffed loudly.
I came out of my chair. “Nothing?” I repeated.
“Sit down, please.”
I complied because I lacked the strength to stand.
“You know how your father felt. Women have no business dealing with money or finances. It might be imprudent to tell you this, but your father changed the will after Alex Shiften came on the scene. Originally, he planned for two million to go into trust for Jean, to be managed by this firm or by her husband, should she marry. But with Alex in the picture . . . You know how your father felt.”
“Did he know that they were sleeping together?” I asked.
“He suspected.”
“And so he cut her out of the will.”
“Basically.”
“Was Jean aware of this?”
Hambly shrugged but didn’t answer the question. “People do funny things with their money, Work. They use it for their own reasons.”
I felt an electric tingle as I realized Hambly wasn’t talking about Jean anymore. “There’s more, isn’t there?”
“The trust for you,” Hambly began, finally taking his seat.
“What about it?”
“You will have full, unfettered use of the income it generates until age sixty. Conservatively invested, it should provide at least a million dollars a year. At sixty, you get it all.”
“But?” I sensed a catch.
“There are certain requirements.”
“Such as?”
“You are required to be actively engaged in the practice of law until such time.”
“What?”
“This point is exquisitely clear, Work. Your father felt it important that you carry on the practice, that you maintain your place in society and in the profession. He was concerned that if he just left you the money, you might do something imprudent.”
“Like be happy?”
Hambly ignored my sarcasm and the raw, naked emotion that must have been in my voice. Even from the grave, my father was trying to dictate the terms of my life, to manipulate me. “He was not specific in that regard,” Hambly said. “But he was very specific in others. This firm will act as trustee. It will be up to us”—he gave me a thin smile—“up to me, actually, to determine whether or not you are actively engaged in the practice of law. One of the criteria, for instance, is that you bill at least twenty thousand dollars a month, adjusted for inflation, of course.”
“I don’t bill half that now and you know it.”
“Yes.” Another smile. “Your father thought this might prove to motivate you.”
“Un-fucking-believable,” I said, anger finally finding a voice.
Hambly rose to his full height and leaned forward, hands splayed on his desk. “Let me make one thing clear, Mr. Pickens. I will not tolerate profanity in this house. Is that understood?”
“Yes,” I said through clenched teeth. “I understand. What else?”
“Any year that you do not satisfy the requirements of the trust document, the income from the trust will go to the Ezra Pickens Foundation. If in two of any five years you fail to meet the requirements of the trust document, the trust will terminate and the full corpus of the trust will transfer irrevocably to the foundation. However, when you reach age sixty, should you comply fully, the entire balance becomes yours to do with as you please. I will provide you with copies of all documents, of course.”
“Is that it?” I asked, my sarcasm so thick, no one could miss it. I should have known better.
“In essence,” he said. “But there is one last, small thing. Should it ever be shown that you have given any money whatsoever to your sister, Jean Pickens, either directly or indirectly, the trust will terminate and all funds will transfer to the foundation.”
“This is too much,” I said, on my feet and pacing.
“It’s your father’s last will and testament,” Hambly said, correcting me. “His dying wish. Few would complain after hearing that fifteen million would be theirs to play with. Try to look at it from that perspective.”
“There’s only one perspective here, Clarence, my father’s, and it’s twisted as hell.” The older lawyer started to speak, but I cut him off, watching his face redden as my voice rose and my respect for the rules of his house vanished. “Ezra Pickens was a twisted, manipulating bastard who never gave two shits for his own daughter and cared just a