By Timothy D. Naegele[1]
A retired lawyer who used to work for me many years ago is being drugged by his younger sister. Also, she had him sign documents that he did not understand; and their oldest brother beat him recently, and injured his shoulder—at the very least.
If Arizona’s elder abuse efforts were anything other than a sham, fraudulent and meaningless, both siblings would be prosecuted and incarcerated. This would send a message, loud and clear—statewide and nationwide—that elder abuse will not be tolerated.
Having corresponded with the state Attorney General’s office[2] and two Arizona law firms[3] since October 27th of last year, I thought someone might do something positive, but I was mistaken. I even asked for an unannounced “household check” on his condition.
It is outrageous that family members can drug their elderly relatives; physically abuse them; take their money and property; and nothing happens. Arizona has become symbolic of insidious elder abuse in the United States, which must be dealt with—and end now, not years from now.
When will they kill my friend?[4]
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© 2024, Timothy D. Naegele
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[1] Timothy D. Naegele was counsel to the United States Senate’s Committee on Banking, Housing, and Urban Affairs, and chief of staff to Presidential Medal of Freedom and Congressional Gold Medal recipient and former U.S. Senator Edward W. Brooke (R-Mass). See, e.g., Timothy D. Naegele Resume-21-8-6 and https://naegeleknol.wordpress.com/accomplishments/ He has an undergraduate degree in economics from the University of California, Los Angeles (UCLA), as well as two law degrees from the School of Law (Boalt Hall), University of California, Berkeley, and from Georgetown University. He served as a Captain in the U.S. Army during the Vietnam War, assigned to the Defense Intelligence Agency at The Pentagon, where he received the Joint Service Commendation Medal (see, e.g., https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Commendation_Medal#Joint_Service). Mr. Naegele is an Independent politically; and he is listed in Who’s Who in America, Who’s Who in American Law, and Who’s Who in Finance and Business. He has written extensively over the years (see, e.g., https://naegeleblog.wordpress.com/articles/ and https://naegeleknol.wordpress.com/articles/), and studied photography with Ansel Adams. He can be contacted directly at tdnaegele.associates@gmail.com
[2] seniorabuse@azag.gov (Task Force Against Senior Abuse, Office of the Arizona Attorney General)
The number applied to my filing with the State is 481071
[3] Craig A. Knapp, https://www.knappandroberts.com/craig-a-knapp/ (“Elder Abuse Attorney”); and Mary Ellen Reilly, https://brolawfirm.com/our-team/ (She “began representing victims of elder abuse and neglect fifteen years ago”)
[4] Lastly, it must be stressed that I seek nothing financially or otherwise, except to help my old friend.
NaegeleBlog 
Tim:
Its just another manifestation of our decline in traditional (family) values and general immoral behavior, as well as at-large greed. The more money the government prints and spends, the worse it becomes. Today, our social welfare agencies are much more concerned about parents being “woke” because they have been hijacked by the Left, along with the criminal justice system. Our political elites favor abortions but not adoptions.
The “squatter epidemic” in vacant houses is another facet of how much our social decline has progressed under President Biden since Covid. I am just glad no such attitudes existed with my late mother and father. Today, nobody really cares and the decline of the traditional family’s role in society is a big part of the overall problem. Truly, its is Fall of Rome v 2.0
H.Craig Bradley
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Thank you, Craig, as always.
Yes, elder abuse and “squatting” are crimes that neither of us thought about growing up.
The inmates are truly running the asylum.
See, e.g., https://naegeleblog.wordpress.com/2024/02/18/hannibal-lector-lives/ (“Hannibal Lecter Lives”)
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Tim:
I heard of an incident many years ago in Rancho Santa Fe, Calif. where an old man’s son, in anger, “stuffed a potted plant down his father’s mouth”. Sick! A cousin, Mike McCarthy ( a retired LA County Fire Fighter), HATES his father ( an Uncle),Bob. He won’t talk to him and has strong emotions or grievances about it. Their relationship is toast. Therefore, All the caregiving fell solely on his sister. I would suggest that all is not well in the homeland at all, fundamentally. Increasingly, the “civil war ” atmosphere in America is too often, family members against family members, neighbors against neighbors, the people against the government, and the government against the people. Surely, its a volatile mixture that could “explode” at any time. Dangerous times.
H.Craig Bradley
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Yes, Craig, we live in “explosive” times.
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Many years ago, I had a discussion with a pro-abortion liberal that actually agreed with me when I stated “at the very least, legalized abortion has cheapened life itself, ” while pointing out the prevailing culture of violence that then existed in many of our major cities.
Since that time, violence has increased dramatically, and, I expect it to get much worse. One of the more alarming illustrations is the dramatic spike of cruel violence involving young women. Women are supposed to represent the softer side of humanity, and yet, they are far too often showing that they can be just as violent as the worst of men. There was a time when vulgarity was truly rare among women. That is no longer the case. Vulgarity is the verbal expression of violence, and it is rampant in our society.
All of this does not bode well for the future. When, not if, our economy finally has its day of reckoning due to our ever increasing amounts of debt, both in the private and public sectors, it’s not too hard to imagine the violence that will be unleashed by the already violent members of our society. Put into that mix all of the illegals (or ‘newcomers,’ per the Biden Administration), many of which expect free shelter, food, medical, etc. We very well may be entering into a period of violence not seen since the Dark Ages.
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Thank you, Ray, for your poignant and insightful comments as always.
Yes, violence seems to be everywhere in the world today. Focusing on the United States alone, it’s as if the insane asylums opened their doors wide, and unleashed madness on our country.
See https://naegeleblog.wordpress.com/2024/02/18/hannibal-lector-lives/ (“Hannibal Lecter Lives”)
Can the “Genie” be put back into the jar? Can order be restored? Yes, I believe so. But it won’t happen overnight.
During the summer of 1964 — egads, almost 60 years ago; yes, this dates me — I joined a law school classmate of mine; and we investigated complaints of police brutality in the Watts area of Los Angeles. I wrote a law review article summarizing my beliefs.
Click to access naegele-civilian-complaints-against-the-police-in-los-angeles.pdf
The next summer, the Watts Riots erupted in Los Angeles, which were followed by the Rodney King riots; and Los Angeles was torn apart.
Today, many years later, there is massive crime in the City of Angels, but for the most part it is stable.
Our great nation can come together and say enough is enough too. This seems to be happening, bit by bit.
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Greetings from Northern California.
I respectfully ask Tim’s readers to kindly read (or re-visit) his compassionate post, plus my own call for advocacy. I can’t emphasize enough the seriousness of this problem. Please bear with me and read on.
Elder abuse is also alive and well in California.
If ever there was occasion to overlook political affiliation, put our political grudges aside, and meet each other civilly in the wide center aisle—this is one such moment.
This is the first time I’ve responded to a blog. I’m not a lawyer, pundit, or political operative. I’m feeling incredibly insecure, out of my element.
Tim’s revelation hit close to home. As the day wore on, I became increasingly outraged. I have been struggling desperately on behalf of my own dear friend since early 2022, and even after her passing.
I urge Tim to stay the course.
I never imagined that something like this could happen so easily—not in California, with so many laws and regulations in place, Adult Protective Services nearby, ombudsmen assigned to all skilled nursing facilities, and close to 5000 active lawyers all around in one county alone.
Several “professionals” were complicit and brazen, ignoring rules that governed their occupations. At least one was shockingly deceptive.
The following is a cautionary tale, not for the faint of heart.
My friend “Bess” was smart, strong, funny, honest, loving, and vivacious. She lived independently for decades since she lost her husband. She did her own cooking, cleaning, crafts, shopping, and finances. Her large condo was amazingly clean and uncluttered—into her 90s. She was financially solvent, paid her taxes, and balanced her checkbook to the penny.
Then one day a 911 call set off a domino effect that will probably haunt me for a lifetime. Within two months, my friend lost everything: her home, possessions, access to her own money, the right to see her own mail, the games she loved, her purse, contact lists, the china she and her husband had saved for as newlyweds, a blanket she was knitting, her favorite knitting pattern . . . . Gone.
She had essentially become the “ward” of a fiduciary, not a temporary ward of the courts or the “ward” of a conservator who loves her.
My friend had committed no crimes and was never declared incompetent. There were no debts or liens against her property. Never a drug or alcohol problem. She and her late husband had worked hard and lived responsibly all their lives.
How could this have happened?
I believe this was entirely about ageism and the desire to grow a business. A mutual older friend has practically screamed at me for being so “charitable” and passionately calls certain people “crooks.”
Then there are those who believe the “ends justify the means.”
My friend was declining, but I still recognized her strengths and abilities. I wanted to work with her, not control her. Wanted her to feel empowered, involved in the decisions about her life, her home, her money, and her possessions.
Increasingly, I assisted Bess with various tasks. One day I might have to make sense of something that arrived in the mail; another day, call customer service somewhere, or sit nearby in case she needed help with automated choices.
Bess gave me POA for medical decisions, witnessed by two neighbors. My education was in public health and I saw warning signs that worried me. A home nurse visited monthly and we talked about options for the future: perhaps the need for home health aides or assisted living with memory care.
Bess and I started touring assisted living facilities. I vowed to be her extra set of eyes and ears. I was optimistic.
We all have moments when we can’t remember names or walk into a room and can’t remember why, among other scary experiences. This is especially true in times of stress and fatigue.
My friend’s memory lapses worried me more with each passing month. Increasingly, she could no longer retain new information —even a hospitalization when I sat beside her during treatment and assessments, then brought her home. I enjoyed our banter and giddiness, but Bess had become increasingly childlike, unable to focus during serious discussions, distracted by trivial things.
Bess was conflicted about her dependence on me. She told people she trusted me “implicitly,” but was fiercely independent and didn’t want to burden me. I told her nonsense—this is what friends do; she was there for me and now this was her hour of need.
I had nothing to gain financially. Bess wanted to change her will to leave “everything” to me. I told her I could never accept such a gift. Her friendship was my gift. Privately, I recognized warning signs of Alzheimer’s disease. Eventually, during an appointment in my presence, Bess was prescribed Aricept.
Then early one morning Bess called me. I knew by the sound of her voice that something was horribly wrong. I dropped the phone, grabbed the key she’d given me, and ran over. I found her at the door, praying out loud for God to take her and asking me to help her end her life. I gently sat her down, took her vital signs and examined her. It was necessary to call the paramedics.
I wasn’t allowed to join Bess because of the pandemic. I received calls from the hospital after tests and assessments were done. Was advised that Bess had an infection, complicated by other problems. Was told that she could benefit from physical therapy at a skilled nursing facility. I was specifically told that Bess would remain at the SNF only about 10-14 days, receiving treatment and physical therapy. Bess was on board.
It seemed wise at the time to heed medical advice. I understood that physical therapy could provide strength and future exercises to reduce my friend’s risk of falls and some illnesses.
Then came one hurdle after another.
The SNF director would not allow visitors even though various COVID restrictions had been lifted. I would have cooperated fully with my education in public health. I was vaccinated, would agree to testing and wear a fresh N95 at each visit.
An RN whose mother needed rehabilitation at the same SNF made a similar observation, stating that he “strongly suspects the real reason was to avoid outside observance of their practices.”
Bess and I spoke daily—often several times a day. Once they allowed me to see her through the glass lobby doors. They had placed her in a wheelchair. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Bess looked sad and bewildered. We blew each other kisses and I returned to my car in tears.
I called the County Health Department. I was specifically told this SNF was violating new guidelines by forbidding all visits and they would notify the director without identifying me.
I heard from the director. She told me I could visit and talked as if she was doing me a favor. I brought flowers, clothing, toiletries, and puzzles.
Then . . . . another hurdle . . . .
The director wanted Bess’ home assessed. I believed it would pass with flying colors. Also knew I could work with contractors, as needed. I cooperated, overjoyed that Bess would soon be home. I planned to stock the refrigerator and decorate with flowers.
We would resume our tours or interview home caregivers as needed.
I later found this inspection troubling. My friend’s home nurse had visited regularly and never found a problem. Why was another entity brought in to inspect my friend’s home, walking from room to room?
As “nice” as they were, how could I not wonder what made them qualified to weigh in on a patient’s discharge? This was a “geriatric care management” company.
The SNF’s director should have contacted APS if there was any doubt about Bess’ safety. This wasn’t about me. My history is clean and I could have provided a long list of references and would have subjected myself to questions, fingerprinting, and whatever else was asked of me by APS or police.
Once again—ageism was a factor, as if a woman (or man) well into their 80s or 90s couldn’t possibly live so well independently . . . . The director cleverly asked me if I’d done the cleaning. In reality, during this hospitalization, I had only washed some laundry, collected her mail, tidied the kitchen, and watered her plants.
Then came another hurdle . . . .
The director refused to discharge Bess because she didn’t yet have a POA for finances. I might add: there was a monitor around my friend’s ankle, as if she was under house arrest.
I was aware of the loose ends in Bess’ life. This worried me, just as I worried about a “Will” versus a “Trust,” but I had never heard of a medical facility that can retain a patient against their will because they don’t yet have all of their “affairs” in order.
Bess started sundowning, calling me several times a night like clockwork, sometimes starting mid-afternoon, talking about how frightened she was, begging for my help. She was increasingly desperate and discombobulated, having been removed from her home, rituals, hobbies, reading, and favorite TV shows. She threatened to somehow break out of the facility and walk home.
During this time, I was badly sleep-deprived, worried sick about the mental state of my friend and what might happen.
I had called APS twice and a case was opened; called and sent text messages to the ombudsman; and contacted other entities. Bess asked me if I had a lawyer. I had already left a message, awaiting his response. The ombudsman didn’t seem concerned, stating that a financial POA ensures a “seamless discharge.”
Bess had told older friends she didn’t need a financial POA, that she had managed her money well all of her life. She didn’t seem to grasp the fragility of life or wasn’t ready to make a decision. Bess was strong-willed and I was afraid to push.
I started researching conservatorship. Also tried to reach the lawyer who had done my friend’s will. That lawyer had recently retired and her firm refused to help in any way—despite my pleas on behalf of their client. I made it clear that my friend was being held against her will at a SNF.
Then one day, the ombudsman called, asking for the name of the firm that had done the will. “Finally,” I thought. Surely, a law firm would work with the ombudsman, to get Bess out of there . . . . Wrong again.
What happened next was even more surreal.
I had shown up for a scheduled appointment to visit my friend and was rudely turned away by the director at the lobby door, stating “I can’t have you visiting every day.” Excuse me? This was only my second visit and COVID restrictions had been lifted.
I later learned someone had contacted a fiduciary. My friend was isolated when she met with this fiduciary. I later learned about their selling points: for example, how clients became their “family.” Most importantly, this company knew that Bess was desperate to return home and vowed to “get her out of there.”
Bess had no legal representation. She was alone with this company, in her fragile, disoriented state.
Had I or another friend been present, we would have read the contract, tried to make sense of it without a law degree, asked questions, sought legal representation, and advised Bess to hold off on signing . . . .
Clearly, the SNF and the fiduciary knew that Bess was suffering from dementia. The SNF had taped a typed notice to the wall beside my friend’s bed, telling her WHERE she was, WHY she was there, and to “Call Lisa with questions.” Clearly, my friend was discombobulated, asking the same questions repeatedly, and they knew I had a calming effect.
Bess naively signed an extensive, complicated contract, which gave this company complete authority over her life: health, home, money, and possessions. The fiduciary’s partner immediately notarized the document—a conflict of interest.
Bess would later tell me she thought they were there to help with “one thing only,” but couldn’t remember anything about that meeting. Whenever I asked what that “one thing” was, she couldn’t remember. She said she “vaguely remembers signing something.” She later told me this was the “biggest mistake of her life.” Also told me several times she never met the fiduciary.
These two women moved rapidly. Within days, my friend also signed a contract with an assisting living facility, even though she’d told me (and other friends) she wasn’t ready to make a decision.
There is NO doubt in my mind now that Bess had signed another contract under duress, without understanding that she would NEVER return home . . . . that this would involve a direct transfer from the SNF to assisted living.
Bess was assessed by someone, apparently in the presence of the fiduciary. She would go directly into Memory Care.
My friend loved her home and valued her independence immensely. She wasn’t one to make impulsive decisions.
As I continued to advocate for my friend, the fiduciary wasted no time transferring pieces of furniture from my friend’s home to her room in Memory Care.
My friend would later tell me she had no idea how her furniture had “landed there.” She also hated the placement of her furniture in that room—arranged by the fiduciary. During our tours, she always cared about floor plans and wanted to be involved in these decisions. The fiduciary and her partner had also gone through my friend’s closets, choosing her clothing for her.
On one hand, they would say my friend was competent to sign a complicated contract most of us could not understand without legal representation. On the other hand, they would say my friend couldn’t handle anything else.
The fiduciary and I later exchanged rather “ugly” words. My observations of her disgusted me. Her credentials and career experience—and that of her business partner—were unimpressive. I was the one at the receiving end of my friend’s questions and cries for help.
There are text messages of my begging the fiduciary to give my friend a voice . . . . foolishly appealing to her “humanity.”
I was worried about my friend’s health and knew additional tests were necessary.
Whenever I asked questions, the fiduciary became angry or defensive, ignored me outright, or refused to “engage” in my “negativity.” She specifically said that Bess’ health was “none of their business,” referring to trusted friends of many years.
This company wasted little time, contacting the real estate agent of their choice, contractors, and movers. My friend’s home was quickly sold and we’ll probably never know what became of her possessions. I can only speculate.
Bess asked me why she couldn’t see her own mail, why she couldn’t see her bank statements . . . . I remember the fiduciary joking about how she’d given Bess a stack of “junk mail” to appease her. Bess would then turn around and ask me again.
My friend’s questions—asked of me—were endless. Her heartache and trauma were visceral. It was my responsibility as a friend to answer her honestly, though I later “got into trouble” for answering, accused of causing “agitation.” I was supposed to “re-direct” whenever questions were asked, even when Bess was distressed and asked me repeatedly.
Often I had to say, “I honestly don’t know, dear heart. You signed a contract with the fiduciary and will have to ask them . . . . “
Worst of all, Bess asked me countless times about her possessions.
My friend and her late husband were hard-working throughout their lives together. There was more than enough money in my friend’s accounts to hold off on the sale of her home . . . . to see if she enjoyed assisted living . . . . but the fiduciary made sure there was no turning back . . . .
Bess tearfully asked me if she still had a home. She asked me about her favorite games. The fiduciary told me she “brought them to assisted living,” though they were nowhere to be found. I ended up replacing them myself through Amazon.
Then, finally—thank God—help arrived in the way of County investigators and local police. I was questioned extensively. They visited my friend, talked about the sale of her home and asked her many questions. Months later, I noticed that someone had gone through the toiletry bag I had given Bess and removed the business cards for the police investigator and the male ombudsman who specializes in elder abuse.
Bess became increasingly sick that Fall, several months after her transfer to Memory Care.
Weeks before her passing, as we were listening to live music in an open area, Bess turned to me and asked yet again what became of her possessions. I wheeled her back into her room and told her again, “I’m sorry, Bess. I don’t know. We have to ask the fiduciary.” I knew the fiduciary would only ignore me.
Weeks later, it appeared that my friend’s cancer had returned or some other type of cancer was taking its toll. I learned through another entity, not the fiduciary, that it seemed Bess had terminal cancer and was placed under hospice care.
I know that a true professional who will remain nameless had moved heaven and earth to be sure I was present, as I requested, when Bess passed away.
One of Bess’ dearest friends spoke lovingly into her ear through my cell phone.
As I held my friend’s hands, in the final hours of her life, the fiduciary and her partner suddenly walked in. The owner was defiant as always, unmasked, and wanted to “lead us in prayer.” This was one of the angriest moments of my life. I was listening to guided prayers through head phones and wanted Bess to feel only love, peace, and comfort.
I wanted to scream bloody murder for their hypocrisy and all the pain they caused my friend in the final months of her life. I held it together. I politely told them I’ve been praying all day and praying now. Thankfully, they left.
Hours later, I might have witnessed the start of my friend’s journey. She waved, as if she was saying hi to someone directly across from her. This was so real I turned and looked at the wall beneath the mounted television. I asked “Bess, is someone here with us? Who is it?” I could swear she answered “Al,” the name her husband went by.
We were both fallen-away Catholics, but I pray that moment was far more than hallucinations and wishful thinking.
My friend finally passed, late at night. I escorted her out of the building with Neptune Society, hugged her goodbye one last time, and returned home at about 2:00 AM.
I am determined to see that some good comes of this horrendous story.
I don’t yet know how the laws of California can be strengthened to prevent this heartbreaking series of events, though the fiduciary would say she treated my friend with “the utmost respect.” Oh, what a crock.
If only I could turn the clock back . . . . but I didn’t know then what I know now . . . .
Bottom line: No one—certainly not a patient suffering from dementia—should ever be pressured into signing a contract under duress, while isolated . . . . certainly not a contract with monumental legal ramifications, granting individuals authority over every aspect of someone’s life.
I feel strongly that my friend should have been discharged and allowed to return home, without signing a contract. She could have read the contract peacefully, noted questions, and met with an attorney. Interesting how they didn’t want her to do that . . . .
I can imagine Democrats wanting additional safeguards. Republicans and Libertarians might say that new laws would interfere with personal liberties, add to bureaucratic red tape, that we need less regulation, not more . . . . I’m not sure how Independents would address this problem. Our legislators might go around and around, like hamsters in a wheel.
This is Tim’s area of expertise, surely not mine, but I have to believe civility and bipartisanship are necessary to solve this growing problem of elder abuse.
And where is the outrage over ageism? Anyone?
Please remember this story—which is sadder and uglier than I’ve shared in this context.
Please do everything you can to prevent this from happening to you or someone you love.
Thank you.
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Thank you, Lisa, for taking the time to write your heartfelt story about your ordeals and those of “Bess.” This should never happen to anyone, anywhere. Indeed, the perpetrators should be punished criminally, just as those who are abusing my friend in Arizona need to be incarcerated NOW.
Bless you, on this Easter Sunday morning and forever. 🙏
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