October 13, 2010.

Jones called the Meeting of the Sheldon Jones Panama Foundation to order. For the first order of business, we have to acknowledge a gift from me to the foundation of $50 Million in appreciated stock in Jones Realty REIT. The next order of business is to name an executive director. I nominate Lupe Cordero to serve as Executive Director. A vote was taken and the Board appointed Lupe as Executive Director and set his salary at $200,000 per year.

October 13, 2010.

Jones met with the attorney to go over the terms of his will. The will would leave $100 Million to the Panama Foundation the rest in a Dynasty Trust to his children and their descendants. His attorney scratched it out quickly. Jones signed it with all the formality even teasing the lawyer when the lawyer asked if he was of sound mind. The witnesses laughed.

November 1, 2010

Barry Obramowitz of the NTSB checked the fusilage of the plane and then the engine. He checked the wires. Barry was a no nonsense, “Joe Friday” sort of fellow. “Man, its getting chilly”, he thought. Not a large man, he didn’t have much meat on his bones and shivered on the early November morning. He found nothing was cut and no evidence foul play. He noticed that the fuel line had a crack in it. He listened again to the black box recording. A loss in fuel would not have explained the pilot’s blackout. That would usually only be explained by a loss of cabin pressure. But perhaps, the loss of fuel caused the air system to fail thus trapping the occupants of the plane in their own carbon dioxide. A real stumper here. With the plane in shreds it was hard to determine whether there was a carbon dioxide leak or even a carbon monoxide leak.

He checked all the gauges, the dials, the black box, he cut open parts of the plane that were sealed to find anything about what was inside the plane as far as the loss of consciousness was concerned.

His cell phone rang, it was the local hospital. The pilot had been brought in with lacerations and a sprained ankle.

He went to Piney Point Hospital and met with the pilot, Mick O’Hara. O’Hara told him that fuel gauge nose dived, then suddenly, the plane engines cut out and that CO must have been leaking into the passenger section because Jones was out cold or perhaps the O2 was lacking. He tried to awaken him, but he didn’t respond. He weighed too much to get a chute on him and time was running out for O’Hara to jump. So O’Hara jumped out. Barry wrote that down in his notebook. Thanked O’Hara and told O’Hara that he would probably have to have a hearing before the FAA before flying again. Usually the FAA grounds pilots when their planes fall out of the sky. The Pilot didn’t care, he was on salary to the Jones REIT at $100,000 per year whether he flew or not for the next five years. He figured that he was due for a vacation anyway.

October 30, 2010 at 9:30 p.m.

“Boy that was the easiest hacking job we’ve ever had. We got into McGonagles and Stephens records and put in the x-rays for the stiff and changed the charts to show the fillings as well and various scars”, Borisoff stated expertly. “The rest of your fee will be wired in 30 seconds”, said the voice at the other end of the telephone.

October 30, 2010.

Jones wrote Sam McGonagle’s name into his rolodex under the word “dentist”. He told his kids that he was changing dentists to Sam McGonagle. He also told them that his insurance had forced him to change primary care physicians. His new doctor was in the same building. Dr. Stephens.

October 15, 2010.

Dr. Stephens had performed hundreds of physicals. He dictated into his computer his notes. Met with one Sheldon Jones. He brought over his prior medical records from Dr. Langston via diskette. He downloaded them into his computer and printed a hard copy for his file on Jones. “Dr. Stephen’s you’ve come highly recommended and take my health insurance. I’m glad to see that you are so thorough and so interested in my health. By the way do you know of any dentists nearby?” They talked awhile further. Jones mentioned he was thinking of buying a company that backed up medical records off-site and wondered if Stephen’s used such a service. Stephens smiled, “I just started this year, each day my files are backed up there.” “Great!” replied Jones. “I want to be certain that my investment is worth doing. Thanks.”

September 29, 2010.

“Mac, I just discovered that I have an illegitimate half brother. I want to ensure that he has some decent money and that I don’t have to pay gift taxes on the gift”, said Jones to his lawyer, Mac Morris over the telephone. Morris is a slightly balding short slim man with a well manicured bearded and graying reddish hair. Well Sheldon, you can give up to a Million to your half-brother without any gift taxes, although you will have to file a return and you will use up what you can give your kids when you die, “ Morris responded. “Then, I think my family owes Lupe $1 Million,” Jones said. Jones continued “I have told my half-brother to open a bank account in Panama. Here are the wiring instructions can you see to it that the bank wires this money to my half-brother. His name is Lupe Cordero.” Jones then switched topics. “In view of this development, I feel a special kinship to the needy of Panama. I want to start a charity for these folks. Let’s call it the Sheldon Jones Panama Foundation, I want the Board of Directors to be my daughter Christine and my son, Phillipe, Lupe, and me of course.”

November 1, 2010.

A private jet crashed into a field in western Warren County, Virginia. It apparently hit some small peaks of the early stages of the Blue Ridge Mountains and crashed into a ravine of a very fast river. The plane was shredded and no survivors were found aboard, there were fragments of a dead body, presumably the remains of the pilot or a passenger. A few days later, the NTSB got a look at the black box. The check of its flight data recorder showed that the pilot had blacked out apparently. He was talking and then he wasn’t. There were cries from the passenger section which would have been understandable under the circumstances. There was some strange whooshing noise. Perhaps someone had tried to jump out before impact. The manifest showed one pilot and one passenger, a rich guy named Sheldon Jones. The Sheriff had cordoned off the area, the NTSB came to reconstruct the accident.

October 30, 2010.

Jones sat in Sam McGonagle=s dentist chair. “So, doc, how do you keep your records?” McGonagle smiled, “Well after I see you, we enter all of the data into a mainframe computer back up which is then stored at 10 p.m. tonight into an off-site mainframe in New Jersey, and of course we keep a paper file here as well.”

October 1, 2010.

The Bank manager looked at the computer screen with amazement. The portly man who had been here the day before and opened a checking account had just received a wire for $1 Million. The notation on it was, “Gift from S. Jones.” When the portly man returned to the bank a few days later, the Bank manager asked him, where he knew Mr. Jones from and the portly man smiled. “His father fuck my mother while on vacation. He’s my half-brother. Lucky for me, eh?”. Lucky is right thought the clerk. Shortly thereafter the money was wired to several different banks and brokerage houses and invested to yield income.

October 29, 2010.

Bill Brubaker had a tough life in Chicago. He was what you might call down and out, or homeless, or less charitably a bum. He was 5’9” and was heavy set. He had gray and brown hair and brown eyes. He was apparently killed by some other person probably for a bottle of booze and suffered a blunt force trauma to the head. The ME truck arrived at the scene and two technicians proceeded to bag the body. After he was put in the bag the truck left. A few miles down the road it turned into an abandoned warehouse where a man with $10,000 was waiting. Thanks guys, don’t spend it all in one place. The detective working the case never figured out what happened to the body, the ME couldn’t find it and assumed it had been misplaced. There had been a mysterious power outage at the morgue that week causing bodies to be moved to other refrigerated places. His paperwork must have been lost. But who cared, he was just a homeless bum anyway. No one would really care.

October 30, 2010.

The somehow a spark ignited an open ether bottle. Sam McGonagle’s dental office went up in flames. It didn’t take long before the nitrous oxide tanks blew and the office building as in flames. The Fire Marshall ruled out arson since there had been a thunderstorm in the area and even static electricity can set off ether. Luckily no one was killed. Sam McGonagle luckily had plenty of insurance and his lease was about up anyway, so he was in the process of setting up a new office uptown. He got a low interest loan from his local bank and now had some insurance cash to boot. His only regret was that all his patient records were destroyed. Thank goodness for that computer back-up. Otherwise the fire really would have been a disaster.

Sheldon Jones was worth $500 Million. He invested heavily in real estate and worked hard making sure he got rent from every property sufficient to cover his debt loan and other expenses. It was hard work, but it paid off. He was sixty-five years old and in great shape. His blood pressure was low, his heart and lungs were clear. His doctor told him that he could live to be 100. He still had rugged good looks that came from living in the climate of Washington State. Seattle was his home. He was about 5’10” tall with gray and brown hair, brown eyes and a pale complexion.

Now it was the year 2010 and the Tax laws did not permit him to give that wealth to his kids without a huge tax. But if he died, well that would be another story. He had to come up with a plan. His kids were everything to him. His son, Phillipe and his daughter Christine were his pride and joy. He tried to make all of their events as they were growing up, and now that they were grown and had families of their own, he was despondent.

August 15, 2010.

“Dad, you seem down”, Christine asked at a family picnic. “Well, you know I’m not getting any younger. I could die any day. Will you miss me?” She smiled, “You know I will, Daddy.” He started to tear and choke up and looked away, then hugged her.

Christine was 30 years old and was the spitting image of her mother. Lean shapely and not looking any worse from having several kids. She was very attractive. She was happily married with four children. Phillipe was 27 years old, and a bit of a hippy. Long hair, a beard, handsome good looks, and a happy bachelor who seemed to have a new buxom babe every time Jones saw him. He told his dad, “I’m just spreading the love! And with big chicks there’s more to love.” The kid had a charm about him. No doubt about that.

September 30, 2010.

A portly man with a bad Spanish accent and looking like a derelict appeared at the Panamanian National Bank in Panama City. He wanted to open a savings account for $1,000. The bank clerk asked for identification and he handed over a paper drivers license showing his name of Lupe Cordero with a Panama City address. He was about 5’10” with brown hair and brown eyes. He was dirty as though he had waded through mud.