Chapter 11
He was seventy-one, silver-haired, and had the unhurried manner of a man who had stopped being surprised by what families did to each other somewhere around his fortieth year of practice.
He set his briefcase on the narrow table, looked at Anna, looked at Lily, and then sat down in the chair Harold had pulled up for him without making any of them feel examined.
"Tell me from the beginning," he said.
Anna told him.
She was more precise than Harold expected — dates, amounts, names, the sequence of events laid out without embellishment.
Martin made notes and didn't interrupt.
Lily fell asleep on her bed somewhere during the second year of the account, her crayon drawing still loosely held, sliding from her fingers in slow increments until Martin reached over and placed it gently on the nightstand.
When Anna finished, Martin opened the envelope and went through the photographs twice.
"Thomas Hale," he said.
"I remember that name.
He contacted me once.
About eight years ago."
Anna looked up sharply.
"He called my office and left a message," Martin said.
"I was in trial.
By the time I called back, he said he'd decided to try another avenue.
I didn't follow up." A pause.
"I've thought about that more than once."
"He tried a lot of avenues," Anna said.
"Victor was always just ahead of him."
Martin set the photographs down.
"The recent material — what Thomas found fourteen months ago.
You said there's more."
"In the envelope.
Behind the photos."
Martin pulled out the last three pages.
They were handwritten, a cramped precise script, with columns of figures and a series of account numbers down the right side.
At the top of the first page, in different ink — bolder, written later — were four words:
*Follow the Meridian Trust account.*
Martin studied it for a long time.
Harold watched his attorney's face and said nothing.
May you like
"Harold," Martin said, "did you ever establish an account called Meridian Trust?"
"No."
