Arthur Nelson Protected His Wyoming Mountain Cabin with a Trust
The lobby of the local bank was quiet at three in the afternoon, the only sound being the soft clacking of a computer keyboard behind the teller counter. The air inside smelled of old paper and the copper tang of loose coins.
I stood before the teller window, my hands resting on the polished oak ledge.
“I need to withdraw five thousand dollars in the form of a cashier’s check,” I said to the young woman behind the glass.
She looked at her screen, her fingers moving quickly. “We can certainly do that for you, Mr. Nelson. It will take just a moment to verify the funds in your secondary savings.”
I watched the small printer beside her desk warm up, its green light flashing as it pulled a clean sheet of paper.
“Is there any pending hold on this account?” I asked.
“No, sir,” she said, looking up with a polite smile. “Everything looks clear on our end. You still have your standard balance remaining after this transaction.”
