Margaret took her seat. She cleared her throat and looked at both tables over her glasses.
“Before we begin,” she said, “I want to make a disclosure for the record. Mrs. Hamilton and I attended law school together more than forty years ago. We have not spoken in over three decades. I don’t believe this affects my ability to be impartial, but if counsel for the petitioner wishes to raise an objection, now is the time.”
Morrison looked at me. He looked at the judge. He looked back at me, at my handbag with its safety pin, at my rubber-soled shoes.
I could see exactly what he was thinking. Law school? This woman? She must mean the old lady took a class once. Maybe she was a secretary in the dean’s office.
“No objection, Your Honor,” Morrison said with a little chuckle. “I’m sure it was a long time ago.”
“It was,” Margaret said. “Proceed.”
Patricia leaned over and whispered something to Michael. I caught the word “secretary.” Michael snorted.
Morrison stood up and buttoned his jacket.
“Your Honor, this is a straightforward case of financial elder abuse and potential fraud. Mrs. Hamilton, the respondent, has been left a substantial inheritance under highly questionable circumstances.”
I folded my hands and listened as he painted his picture of me.
Confused. Vulnerable. Easily manipulated. A woman who had been a homemaker her entire adult life, who had never held a job, who had no understanding of money, and who had somehow, mysteriously, ended up controlling a $62 million estate while her only child was left with a wristwatch.
“The petitioner requests an immediate competency evaluation,” Morrison said, “and the appointment of a temporary conservator to protect Mrs. Hamilton’s assets from further mismanagement. The petitioner respectfully suggests her husband, Mr. Michael Brooks, a financial professional, as a suitable temporary conservator.”
He sat down.
Margaret looked at me.
“Mrs. Hamilton. You’re representing yourself in this matter?”
I stood up slowly. I let my hand rest on the table for balance, the way an old woman would.
“Yes, Your Honor,” I said. “I couldn’t afford an attorney.”
Patricia actually smirked at that one. Sixty-two million dollars, and her mother couldn’t afford a lawyer.
“Do you understand the nature of these proceedings?” Margaret asked.
“I believe so, Your Honor. My daughter thinks I’m not smart enough to manage money.”
Morrison was on his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. That oversimplifies serious allegations of mental incompetence and fraud.”
“Sustained,” Margaret said. “Mrs. Hamilton, do you understand that the court is being asked to decide whether you have the mental capacity to manage your own financial affairs?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“And do you wish to contest these allegations?”
For the first time that morning, I looked directly at my daughter.
“Yes, Your Honor,” I said. “I do.”
Margaret wrote something down.
“Mr. Morrison, I’ve reviewed your petition. You’re alleging that Mrs. Hamilton forged her late husband’s will?”
“Not exactly forged, Your Honor,” Morrison said smoothly. “We believe she was manipulated into believing she was entitled to an inheritance that should rightfully go to the child.”
“I see. And you have evidence of this manipulation?”
Morrison hesitated. It was small. Most people wouldn’t have noticed. I noticed.
“We believe the evidence will emerge during the competency evaluation, Your Honor.”
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