I raised my hand a little, like a schoolgirl.
“Your Honor, may I ask a question?”
Margaret nodded. “Go ahead.”
I turned to Morrison.
“Mr. Morrison, you say I was manipulated into forging my husband’s will. But the will was properly witnessed by three people, including my husband’s own physician. It was notarized. And the estate’s attorney already had the signatures examined by a forensic document examiner, whose report is in the probate file. Are you suggesting that the witnesses, the doctor, the notary, and the handwriting expert were all manipulated, too?”
Morrison’s face tightened with annoyance.
“Your Honor, Mrs. Hamilton lacks the legal knowledge to understand the complexities of this case.”
“Actually,” I said quietly, “I understand it perfectly. You’re hoping this court will declare me incompetent based on my age and the fact that I’m a woman who stayed home with her child. Without any actual evidence of mental incapacity. Without any evidence of fraud. Isn’t that right, Mr. Morrison?”
The courtroom went very quiet.
Patricia was staring at me with wide eyes.
“Furthermore,” I went on, “you filed a petition for conservatorship without a medical certificate. No doctor has examined me. No doctor has signed anything. You told this court I refused to cooperate with an evaluation, but no one ever asked me to have one. Not you, not my daughter, not anyone. You have character testimony and speculation. That’s all you have.”
Morrison shot to his feet. “Objection, Your Honor! Mrs. Hamilton is clearly being coached!”
Margaret raised one silver eyebrow.
“By whom, Mr. Morrison?” she asked. “She’s sitting there alone.”
That was the moment I decided to stop pretending.
I straightened my shoulders. I lifted my chin. I let thirty years of careful pretense fall away like an old coat sliding off onto the floor.
“Your Honor,” I said, in a voice I hadn’t used since 1993, “I’d like to present my credentials to the court.”
I reached into my cracked brown handbag and took out a small laminated card. I walked to the clerk and handed it to her. She passed it up to the bench.
Margaret read it aloud for the record.
“Dorothy Mitchell Hamilton. Licensed to practice law in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts since 1982. Status: active. In good standing.”
The silence in that courtroom was deafening.
Patricia’s mouth fell open. Michael grabbed her arm so hard she flinched, and he started whispering into her ear.
James Morrison looked like he’d been slapped across the face with a wet fish.
Margaret examined the card with a perfectly neutral expression, though I could see the corner of her mouth trying very hard not to move.
“Mrs. Hamilton,” she said, “why didn’t you mention your legal background earlier in this proceeding?”
“Because, Your Honor,” I said, “I wanted to see exactly what accusations Mr. Morrison would make against someone he assumed knew nothing about the law.”
I turned and faced Morrison directly.
“You’ve spent the last twenty minutes arguing that I lack the mental capacity to understand simple financial matters. You never once bothered to look me up. My name has been in the Board of Bar Overseers registry for forty-four years, Mr. Morrison. It took me eleven seconds to find yours.”
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