That was the beginning of the worst summer of my life.
In May, I got a letter from Bradley Strand’s office. It was polite. It said that his client was “willing to resolve this matter amicably” if I would sign the enclosed affidavit and pay a settlement of $25,000.
I read the affidavit. It said that I was a sixty-nine-year-old woman who suffered from “occasional confusion.” It said that I had mistaken Mr. Haller for someone else. It said that I could no longer be certain of what I saw or heard on March 14th, and that I withdrew my statement to the Temple Police Department “in its entirety.”
There was a line at the bottom for my signature. And a line for a notary.
Withdraw my statement in its entirety.
I put that paper on my refrigerator with a magnet shaped like a pineapple. Every morning I looked at it while the coffee brewed. Every morning, I didn’t sign it.
But I’ll be honest with you. I thought about it.
In June, my car’s air conditioning went out. $1,240 at the shop on 31st Street. In Texas, in June, you don’t skip that. My savings went down to $9,900.
In July, I got a second letter. Less polite. It said Mr. Haller’s damages were “continuing to accrue” and that if I didn’t sign, they would “aggressively pursue all available remedies,” including a judgment against my “personal assets.”
My personal assets were a 2009 Buick LeSabre, a recliner, and Harold’s railroad watch.
My son, Kevin, lives in Phoenix. He called me every Sunday that summer. He’s an accountant. He wanted me to sign.
“Mom, it’s not worth it. You’ll lose everything you have. Just sign the stupid paper and pay them off. I’ll help with the money.”
“Kevin, if I sign that paper, I’m saying I lied to the police.”
“You’re saying you were confused. You’re almost seventy. Nobody will blame you.”
“I wasn’t confused.”
“Mom. Please.”
I couldn’t explain it to him. I couldn’t explain it to anybody. All I could see when I closed my eyes was two small hands pressed flat against a car window. Purple raincoat with ducks on it.
If I signed that paper, what happened to her?
In August, Dolores from the deli gave me a phone number on a napkin.
“My nephew used them when his landlord tried to keep his deposit,” she said. “Central Texas Legal Aid. They help folks who can’t afford a lawyer. It’s free if you qualify.”
I almost didn’t call. I didn’t want to be a charity case. Harold and I never took a handout in fifty-one years.
But my savings was down to $9,300. And there was a paper on my refrigerator with a line for my signature.
I called.
Ethan Blake is a skilled Creative Content Specialist with a talent for crafting engaging and thought-provoking narratives. With a strong background in storytelling and digital content creation, Ethan brings a unique perspective to his role at TheArchivists, where he curates and produces captivating content for a global audience.
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