During the recess, I stood by the window in the hallway and watched Patricia, Michael, and Morrison huddled together near the elevators.
Patricia kept glancing over at me. Her face was a mixture of shock and something that looked a lot like fear.
Michael was pacing back and forth with his phone pressed to his ear. His voice carried down the marble hallway in pieces.
“Much more complicated than we thought—”
“No, she’s actually a lawyer—”
“We need to reassess our whole position—”
They had built their entire case on one belief. That I was a simple housewife who had stumbled into wealth by accident. Now they were scrambling to understand who they were really dealing with.
After about ten minutes, Morrison broke away from the huddle and walked over to me. His earlier swagger was gone. In its place was a careful, cautious respect.
“Mrs. Hamilton,” he said. “Perhaps we could discuss a settlement.”
“What kind of settlement, Mr. Morrison?”
He cleared his throat. “My client is willing to withdraw the conservatorship petition in exchange for a more equitable distribution of the estate. Say, the Martha’s Vineyard property and a cash payment of fifteen million. It would save everyone a great deal of time and expense.”
I almost smiled.
“You mean Patricia still wants her inheritance after all. Even after telling the court her mother is too senile to tie her shoes.”
“Mrs. Hamilton, surely you can understand your daughter’s position. She expected to inherit something significant from her father.”
“Mr. Morrison,” I said, “my daughter did inherit something significant from her father. A loving home. An excellent education, paid for in full. A down payment on her house. More than two hundred thousand dollars in loans that nobody ever asked her to repay. Every opportunity a person could want. The fact that she took all of it for granted doesn’t entitle her to his money.”
“But sixty-two million dollars is an enormous sum for one person to manage alone.”
I looked him in the eye.
“Are you questioning my mental capacity again, Mr. Morrison? Because I should warn you, that didn’t go very well for you in there.”
His professional mask slipped a little.
“I’ll be frank, Mrs. Hamilton. My clients are reconsidering their approach. They’d prefer to resolve this privately.”
“I’m sure they would.”
I picked up my handbag.
“But we’re past the point of a private resolution. Your clients made this public when they filed papers in a court of law saying I was mentally incompetent. They put it on the record. Now they can face the record.”
When court reconvened, Morrison asked for a continuance to reassess the evidence.
Margaret denied it flatly.
“Mr. Morrison, you filed this petition on an emergency basis. You told this court that Mrs. Hamilton’s assets were in immediate danger because of her mental state. You can’t now come back and tell me you need more time to figure out what your case is. Call your first witness.”
So Patricia took the stand.
I watched my daughter walk to the witness box. She looked smaller somehow. Her designer suit seemed too big for her. She raised her right hand and swore to tell the truth, and her hand was trembling.
“Mrs. Brooks,” Morrison began, “please describe your mother’s behavior following your father’s death.”
Patricia’s voice was uncertain.
“She seemed confused about financial matters. She asked me questions about banking. About investments. Things she’d never asked about before.”
“And did these questions concern you?”
“At the time, yes. But now I’m wondering if she—”
She stopped. She looked at me.
“If what, Mrs. Brooks?” Morrison prompted.
“If she was testing me,” Patricia said quietly. “Somehow.”
Lila Hart is a dedicated Digital Archivist and Research Specialist with a keen eye for preserving and curating meaningful content. At TheArchivists, she specializes in organizing and managing digital archives, ensuring that valuable stories and historical moments are accessible for generations to come.
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