Too Much and Never Enough, стр. 56
We weren’t asking for a specific dollar amount or a percentage of the estate, just some assurance that the assets we already had would be secure in the future and if, given the family’s enormous wealth, there was anything they could see their way clear to doing as far as my grandfather’s estate was concerned. As the executors and, along with Elizabeth, sole beneficiaries, Maryanne, Donald, and Robert had a wide latitude in that area, but Rob remained noncommittal.
At our final meeting, in the bar of the Drake Hotel on 56th Street and Park Avenue, it was clear that Robert had begun to understand that we weren’t going to back down. Prior to that, despite the unpleasant things he’d been saying to us, he had maintained an affable “Hey, kids, I’m just the messenger” attitude. That day he reminded us, once again, that my grandfather had hated our mother and had been afraid his money would fall into her hands.
That was laughable, because for more than twenty-five years my mother had lived according to the terms the Trumps had set, following their directions to the letter. She had lived in the same poorly maintained apartment in Jamaica, Queens; her alimony and child support payments had rarely been increased, yet she had never asked for more.
Finally, Fred had disowned us because he could. The people who’d been assigned to protect us, at least financially, were our trustees—Maryanne, Donald, Robert, and Irwin Durben—but they apparently had little interest in protecting us, especially at their own expense.
Rob leaned forward, suddenly serious. “Listen, if you don’t sign this will, if you think of suing us, we will bankrupt Midland Associates and you will be paying taxes on money you don’t have for the rest of your lives.”
There was nothing left to say after that. Either Fritz and I gave in, or we fought. Neither option was a good one.
We consulted with Irwin, who felt like the only ally we had left. He was incensed about how poorly our grandfather had treated us in the will. When we told him how Robert had responded when asked about Midland Associates and our share in other Trump entities, he said, “Your share of the ground leases under Shore Haven and Beach Haven alone are priceless. If they’re not going to do anything for you, you’re going to have to sue them.”
I had no idea what a ground lease was, let alone that I had a share in two of them, but I knew what priceless meant. And I trusted Irwin. Based on his recommendation, Fritz and I made a decision.
After all those months, William was still in the hospital, and Fritz and Lisa were feeling overwhelmed. I told him I’d take care of it and called Rob that afternoon.
“Is there anything you guys can do, Rob?” I asked.
“Sign the will, and we’ll see.”
“Really?”
“Your father’s dead,” he said.
“I know he’s dead, Rob. But we’re not.” I was so sick of having that conversation.
He paused. “Maryanne, Donald, and I are simply following Dad’s wishes. Your grandfather didn’t want you or Fritz, or especially your mother, to get anything.”
I took a deep breath. “This is going nowhere,” I said. “Fritz and I are going to hire an attorney.”
As if a switch had been flipped, Robert screamed, “You do whatever the fuck you need to do!” and slammed the phone down.
The next day, there was a message from Gam on my answering machine when I got home. “Mary, it’s your grandmother,” she said tersely. She never referred to herself that way. It was always “Gam.”
I called her back right away.
“Your uncle Robert tells me you and your brother are suing for twenty percent of your grandfather’s estate.”
I felt blindsided and said nothing right away. Obviously Rob had broken our agreement and told my grandmother his version of what we’d been discussing. But the other thing that held me up was that my grandmother spoke as if our getting what would have been my father’s share of the estate was somehow wrong and unseemly. I was confused—about loyalty, about love, about the limits of both. I’d thought I was part of the family. I’d gotten it all wrong.
“Gam, we haven’t asked for anything. I don’t know what Rob told you, but we’re not suing anybody.”
“You’d better not be.”
“We’re just trying to figure this out, that’s all.”
“Do you know what your father was worth when he died?” she said. “A whole lot of nothing.”
There was a pause and then a click. She’d hung up on me.
C
HAPTER
T
WELVE
The Debacle
I sat there with the phone in my hand, not knowing what to do next. It was one of those moments that changes everything—both what came before and what will come after—and it was too big to process.
I called my brother, and as soon as I heard his voice, I burst into tears.
He called Gam to see if he could explain what we were really asking for, but they had basically the same conversation. Her parting shot to him was slightly different, though: “When your father died, he didn’t have two nickels to rub together.” In the world of my family, that was the only thing that mattered. If your only currency is money, that’s the only lens through which you determine worth; somebody who has accomplished in that context as little as my father was worth nothing—even if he happened to be your son. Further, if my father died penniless, his children weren’t entitled to anything.
My grandfather had every right to change his will as he saw fit. My aunts and uncles had every right to follow his instructions to the letter, despite