“You’re trying to figure out which piece of paper means something,” said my cousin, when I told him my mother left behind a houseful of disorganized papers.
While I was coping with my mother’s death, my relatives in the Northwest were coping with my uncle’s death, complicated by his wife’s — my aunt’s — death mere months earlier. Those half-dozen relatives worked together in that aftermath. I was on my own.
After spending 2020 sorting, filing, shredding, recycling and just plain trashing enough paper to fill countless trash bins (and roughly six file drawers), I’ve been able to identify what’s now mine: I count at least three credit union accounts, two bank accounts, four dividend stock accounts, seven “equities,” two individual retirement accounts, or IRAs, some credit-card credits. For most of them my mother didn’t even bother to name me (or anyone else) as her beneficiary.
One such stray credit union account came to light last December. One week my lawyer said, “No hurry about it.” Next week he said, “We can’t close probate until you get it transferred to your name.”
I went to the credit union’s nearest branch and explained the situation to the teller. She punched some keys and said, “We’ll send you a package.” I later learned she should’ve directed me to the branch manager and much of the transfer could have been accomplished then and there, but of course that would have required the teller to do her job.
More than a week went by and no package, so I phoned. Soon an e-mail arrived from an unknown woman, with such a vague subject line, I almost deleted it as spam. This e-mail requested a death certificate, personal identification, a W-9 tax form, and “Letters of Testamentary/Administration (estate value over $166,250).”
I forwarded it to my lawyer, “FYI” and he responded with a garbled message about Employer Identification Number, or EIN, Order of Probate, “scanned the originals” and “a letter of instruction that Lyn notarized and delivered to you.” There were no scanned originals and I hadn’t notarized or delivered anything.
I e-mailed the lawyer and phoned the woman. The lawyer coughed up the requested “Letters of Testamentary/Administration.” I just needed to send the woman an original death certificate and a photocopy of my personal ID. I mailed them and, finally, the account was closed and a check issued.
Around the same time I received a notice my mother’s Morgan Stanley IRA was about to be turned over to the state as unclaimed property, while California Public Employees’ Retirement System, or Cal PERS, sent a notice requesting my parents’ divorce date, to issue survivor benefits. The Cal PERS request was relatively simple — fortunately, I had the divorce papers in my file cabinet already.
The Morgan Stanley issue was more complicated. I phoned Morgan Stanley, phoned again. A packet of forms arrived via FedEx. I had to get them notarized, and returned via FedEx. I had to send an original death certificate, too, so I needed to order one from the county, and that request needed to be notarized, too.
I worked through piles of expired insurance papers, certificates, decades-old uncashed checks (void after 90 days, from companies that no longer exist). An Opus Bank application form had some account numbers scribbled on it, nothing matching any other document. Twice I wrote to Pacific Premier (they acquired Opus) and the second letter triggered a response from a bank employee who helpfully suggested I get a court order if I wanted the bank to research old accounts.
I consulted my probate lawyer, who advised me to take my mother’s death certificate, along with certain other documents he provided, to the bank, and request a search. I did, and found the account numbers in question were for an organization my mother volunteered for — maybe she was the treasurer or something. They weren’t personal accounts, but I wouldn’t have known if I hadn’t investigated.