Chapter 9: The Deal He Thought I'd Take
Julian's lawyer was named Harris Bale.
He was the kind of man who scheduled calls for exactly thirty minutes and started speaking before you had finished saying hello.
"Mrs.
Mercer," he said, "my client has asked me to reach out because he believes a negotiated resolution would serve everyone's interests better than a prolonged legal process."
"I'm listening," I said.
"My client is prepared to offer a settlement.
A lump sum, paid directly to you, in exchange for your agreement not to participate as a witness in the Reeves civil claim and to sign a mutual non-disclosure agreement covering the events of the past three years."
I had Patrick's attorney, a woman named Grace Holloway, on a silent second line.
She had asked me to let him speak first.
"What's the number?" I asked.
"Seventy-five thousand dollars."
I said nothing.
Bale continued.
"Given the complexity of proving individual contributions to a joint marital account, my client believes this represents a fair —"
"He took a hundred and ninety-seven thousand dollars," I said.
"From two sources.
One of them was my paychecks."
"The legal standard for —"
"He sent emails to twelve people telling them our marriage was over.
While I was paying our rent."
A pause.
"Mrs.
Mercer, the NDA would also prevent any public discussion of those communications —"
"I don't want an NDA." My voice was steady.
"I want to testify."
Silence.
"I would encourage you to consider the offer carefully," Bale said.
"Litigation is expensive and uncertain.
My client's position is legally defensible.
This process could take two to three years."
"I know," I said.
"I still want to testify."
Another pause — longer this time.
"Is there a counter-figure you'd consider?"
Grace had told me to expect this question.
She had told me exactly what to say.
"No," I said.
"There isn't."
The call ended shortly after.
I switched back to Grace's line.
"He'll call back," she said.
"The offer will go up."
"I don't want the money."
"I know.
But let him make the next offer anyway.
Every time he calls, it tells us how worried they are." A brief pause.
"Carol Ashworth's statement came in this morning.
It's strong.
And Diane has agreed to provide a written account of the conversations Julian had with her about your supposed separation — including dates and specific language he used."
"He's losing his witnesses," I said.
"He's losing his story," Grace corrected.
"The witnesses were always secondary.
What he built this on was a version of events that required everyone around him to believe a different thing.
Carol believed one thing.
Diane believed another.
You believed something else entirely.
Once those versions are in the same room — in a deposition, in a filing — the whole structure collapses."
I thought about Julian at the party.
Moving from group to group, comfortable, charming, each conversation a separate performance.
"He managed information," I said.
"Very well, for a long time." Grace's voice was matter-of-fact.
"But he made one mistake."
"What?"
"He underestimated how much you'd kept."
I looked at the folder on my kitchen table.
Two years of payslips.
Bank statements.
Shift records.
The anxiety habit Julian had teased me about.
"He thought I was just trusting," I said.
"He thought you were just trusting," Grace agreed.
"Call me after Bale reaches out again.
I expect it'll be within forty-eight hours."
She was right.
It was thirty-six.
The second offer was a hundred and twenty thousand, with a narrower NDA covering only the emails.
I said no.
The third offer came four days later — a hundred and sixty thousand, no NDA, just a request that I limit my testimony to financial matters and avoid characterizing Julian's personal conduct.
I said no to that too.
Grace called me the morning after the third refusal.
"They've stopped making offers," she said.
"Is that good?"
"It means they've run the numbers and decided to fight.
Which means they've also accepted that this is going to court." A brief pause.
"It also means Julian has seen enough of our evidence to know the offers weren't working.
He's shifting strategy."
"To what?"
"We'll find out at the deposition," she said.
"Which is scheduled for three weeks from Thursday."
I wrote the date in my calendar.
Three weeks.
I had waited three years without knowing what I was waiting through.
Three weeks felt manageable.
That evening, Diane called.
"I heard the offers stopped," she said.
"Grace told you?"
"Patrick told me.
We've been in contact." A pause.
"How are you holding up?"
"Better than I expected." I was sitting at the kitchen table again.
The folder was still there, but I had stopped opening it.
I knew what was in it.
"I keep thinking about the launch party.
How certain he looked all evening."
"He was certain," Diane said.
"That's what made him dangerous.
He genuinely believed he had managed it well enough that it wouldn't catch up with him."
"And now?"
"Now he's sitting across from three people who each have a different piece of the same truth." Her voice was quiet.
"He's realizing that the problem with managing information is that you can't manage all of it.
Not forever."
I thought about the photographer.
The nervous approach, the camera screen turned toward me.
The accidental image that had started all of this.
"Someone always sees something," I said.
"Someone always sees something," Diane agreed.
After we hung up, I sat for a while in the quiet kitchen.
Then I opened my laptop and started drafting my written statement for Grace.
I started at the beginning.
The double shifts.
The car.
The late nights when Julian worked and I believed we were building something together.
May you like
I wrote for two hours without stopping.
It was the most honest thing I had written in years.
