Chapter 8: The Move They Hadn't Thought Through
Daniel's next move came in the form of a woman named Dr.
Carolyn Briggs.
At two o'clock that afternoon, while Gloria and I were still working through the account documents at my kitchen table, the doorbell rang.
I opened the door to find a woman in her mid-forties holding a leather satchel and wearing a pleasant, practiced expression that I recognized from the many years I had spent dealing with people who had been sent to deliver something unpleasant while appearing to do the opposite.
"Mrs.
Mercer?" she said.
"My name is Dr.
Carolyn Briggs.
I'm a geriatric wellness consultant.
Your son Daniel called us this morning.
He's expressed some concerns about your wellbeing and asked us to conduct a brief informal assessment.
It won't take long."
I looked at her for a moment.
"Daniel called you this morning," I said.
"That's right.
He mentioned you've been under some stress, some confusion—"
"Gloria," I said, without turning around.
Gloria appeared at my shoulder.
She looked at Dr.
Briggs once, top to bottom, and said: "Do you have a written referral signed by a licensed physician and countersigned by the family member requesting the assessment?"
Dr.
Briggs blinked.
"It's an informal—"
"Do you have documentation?"
"Not for an informal visit, no."
"Then you're not coming in," Gloria said pleasantly.
"If Daniel Mercer believes his mother requires a cognitive assessment, he is welcome to have his own physician submit a formal written request through the appropriate legal channels, at which point Mrs.
Mercer's counsel will review it.
You have a good afternoon."
She closed the door.
I stood in the hallway and looked at the closed door and felt something cold and very clear settle into place.
"He's trying to establish incapacity," I said.
"Yes," Gloria said.
"Which is both obvious and stupid, because he's doing it the day after she called him from the bank.
Judges notice that kind of timing."
She walked back to the kitchen table and picked up her pen.
"He's scared," Frank said from the doorway.
"He didn't think you'd get this far."
He was right.
I had spent years being helpful and undemanding and easy to overlook, and Daniel had mistaken that for something it wasn't.
He had mistaken patience for passivity.
He had mistaken kindness for weakness.
He had built an entire plan on the assumption that his mother would not read the third page.
At three o'clock, Martin Hale called Gloria's number.
I listened from the other side of the table while she spoke to him in a tone that was polite, precise, and stripped of any warmth she might once have had for him.
"My client is aware of the co-signatory clause, the three withdrawals totalling one hundred and thirty-one thousand dollars, and the power of attorney you drafted at Daniel Mercer's request using an unverified letter bearing her name," she said.
"We have the original signed document, the bank records, and a sworn statement from a witness who was present when the unsigned power of attorney was displayed at the restaurant last night." She paused.
"Here is what I am asking you to do.
By five o'clock today, you will send my office a complete record of every instruction you received from Daniel Mercer, every document he provided you, and every communication between your firm and his regarding Evelyn Mercer's estate.
If I do not have that by five, I will be filing a complaint with the state bar and requesting an emergency freeze on all accounts under your countersignature first thing tomorrow morning."
She listened for a moment.
"I'm glad we understand each other," she said, and hung up.
She looked at me across the table.
"He'll cooperate.
He has no other reasonable choice."
"Will he face consequences?"
"His own, separate from Daniel's.
He breached his fiduciary duty to you and he prepared a fraudulent document.
The bar complaint goes in regardless." She paused.
"He knew you hadn't agreed to that clause.
He chose to proceed anyway.
That's not a gray area."
At four forty-seven, Martin's office sent through forty-three pages of documentation.
Gloria read through them at the kitchen table while I made tea and Frank sat quietly and Patricia picked up the empty cups and washed them without being asked, because she was the kind of person who knew that the most useful thing to do in a crisis is to keep the small things moving.
At five-thirty, Gloria set down the last page.
"He has bank statements showing the withdrawals were transferred to a personal account in Daniel's name," she said.
"Not estate expenses.
Not trust distributions.
A personal checking account opened eighteen months ago with Daniel listed as sole holder."
She put the page face-up on the table and slid it toward me.
Daniel's name.
His account number.
And there, in neat bank-printed columns, every transfer from my estate laid out in chronological order like a receipt for something shameful.
"What happens now?" I asked.
"Now," Gloria said, "we give this to someone who can make it official."
She picked up her phone and dialed.
When the other end picked up, she said simply: "Robert, it's Gloria Sutherland.
I have a financial elder @buse case with full documentation.
I need to speak with someone in your white collar unit today."
She looked at me across the table while she waited.
May you like
I picked up my tea and held it in both hands and looked out the kitchen window at the yard where Daniel had played as a boy, where Richard had taught him to throw a ball, where I had once believed that everything built inside that house would hold.
I let it go.
