Chapter 9: The Last Thing He Tried
Christopher's attorney filed a counter-motion on a Friday.
Daniel called me that afternoon.
"He's claiming the marriage contract — the original agreement — constitutes a binding financial arrangement that supersedes standard marital asset claims.
He's arguing that because you entered the marriage under explicit terms, your access to marital funds was always conditional."
"He's trying to use the agreement against me."
"Yes.
He's also filed a separate motion arguing that Nora's affidavit should be excluded from the civil proceedings on the grounds that she was medically compromised at the time of recording and therefore lacked full capacity."
I felt something cold move through me.
"He's going after the video," I said.
"He's trying to.
It won't succeed.
The recording was made in the presence of a notary who certified her capacity.
Two attending physicians also signed off.
But it will create a delay, and I think that's the point." Daniel paused.
"He's also filed a motion to depose you in person.
In Atlanta."
"Can he do that?"
"He can request it.
I'll be pushing back.
Given the documented pattern of financial control and the threatening messages he sent you, I have a strong argument for remote deposition." A pause.
"But I want you to be prepared for the possibility that you may need to come back."
I looked out Priya's window.
"If I have to," I said, "I will."
"There's one more thing." Daniel's voice shifted slightly.
"His attorney included a personal letter from Christopher in the filing packet.
It's addressed to you.
Technically it's part of the record now."
"What does it say?"
"It says — and I'll read it directly — *Abigail.
I understand I have made mistakes.
I am prepared to acknowledge them privately.
But what you are doing will destroy a company that employs over four thousand people.
Whatever you believe about me, those people have families.
If you proceed, their livelihoods are at risk because of a personal dispute between us.
I am asking you to consider that before you let an attorney and a dead woman's letter make your decisions for you.*"
The silence on the line was complete.
"A dead woman's letter," I said.
"Yes."
I thought about Nora on the portable oxygen unit in the lobby.
Forty minutes.
Watching Gwen walk past.
"He wrote that," I said.
"He actually wrote that."
"He did.
And it is now part of the official court record."
I thought about what Daniel had said a week earlier.
*He is not behaving like someone who believes he will win.*
"He's desperate," I said.
"He is.
And desperate people say things they cannot take back." A pause.
"Abigail, I want to be honest with you.
The four-thousand-employees argument is not nothing.
A jury will hear it.
We need to be ready to address it."
"How?"
"By being specific about what the complaint targets.
The complaint targets Christopher Reynolds personally and the specific decisions he made.
It does not target the company's operations, its employees, or its contracts.
Harold Reynolds has already begun separating Christopher from day-to-day management, which actually strengthens that argument.
The company is not on trial.
Christopher is."
"Does Harold know about the letter?"
"I sent it to his attorney an hour ago."
My phone buzzed while I was still on the call.
A number I recognized.
The Buckhead house.
"Harold is calling me," I said.
"Take it.
Call me after."
I switched lines.
"Abigail." Harold's voice was different from the last time.
Something in it had gone very quiet.
"I've read the letter."
"So have I."
"He used Nora's name." Not a question.
"Yes."
A long pause.
"I want you to know that I spoke to Christopher this morning.
Before the filing.
Before I knew about the letter." His voice was careful and slow.
"I told him that if he continued down this path, I would be removing him from the board entirely and transferring operational control to the executive committee.
I told him I would do it publicly if necessary."
"What did he say?"
"He told me I was being manipulated by a woman who had married him for money." Harold paused.
"I told him that a man who freezes his wife's access to emergency medical care and then sends her 52 dollars the night her sister d:ies has no standing to speak about other people's motives."
I pressed my hand to my mouth.
"He hung up," Harold said simply.
"And then he filed that letter."
"Harold." I steadied my voice.
"You don't have to do this.
You don't have to put yourself in the middle of it."
"I'm already in the middle of it," he said.
"I put myself there the moment I didn't look closely enough at what was happening in my own family." A pause.
"I'm not doing this for the company.
I'm not doing this for the legal case.
I'm doing it because your sister sat in our building's lobby on an oxygen unit and no one helped her.
And because my grandson described her as a dead woman's letter." His voice dropped.
"She had a name.
She had a whole life.
She raised you by herself from the time you were a teenager.
She d:ied trying to protect you.
And he reduced her to a letter."
I couldn't speak for a moment.
"He's going to lose this," Harold said.
Not as a prediction.
As a statement of something already decided.
"And when he does, I want you to know that whatever comes after — whatever you need to rebuild — you will not be doing it alone.
That is not a legal offer.
That is me, as an old man who should have paid more attention, telling you that I intend to make at least part of this right."
"You don't owe me anything," I said.
"No," Harold said.
"But I want to.
There's a difference."
We stayed on the line for another moment without speaking.
"Take care of yourself," he said finally.
"You too," I said.
I set the phone down.
Priya was in the kitchen doorway again.
She had stopped pretending to be doing something else.
"He used Nora in the letter," I said.
"I know.
Daniel's paralegal called while you were on with Harold." She crossed the room and sat down beside me on the couch.
"What do you need?"
I thought about it.
"I need this to be over," I said.
"Not quickly.
Correctly.
I need it to end the right way."
Priya nodded.
"Then that's what we're going to make happen," she said.
Outside, the evening was coming in.
The light through the window was going gold and then grey.
Somewhere in Atlanta, Christopher Reynolds was waiting to see if I would break.
I thought about Nora's last words.
*Don't ever beg anyone for me again.
Live, Abby.*
May you like
I was done begging.
And I was just beginning to live.
