Chapter 6: The Attorney He Hired
His name was Gerald Marsh.
Patricia said it the way you say the name of a weather system — not with fear, exactly, but with the kind of respect that means you've seen what it can do.
"He doesn't take cases he thinks he'll lose," she said.
"Which means Edward has convinced him there's something to work with."
"The bank statement came to our address," I said.
"Nicole didn't take anything from Edward's home."
"I know that.
But Marsh will argue the document was private correspondence, that Nicole photographed it without consent, and that you directed her to gather evidence against her father.
He'll try to make this about her conduct, not Edward's."
"She's sixteen."
"Which makes it worse for Edward if it goes to court, and he knows it.
Marsh isn't planning to win on the merits.
He's planning to make the process painful enough that you settle."
I was quiet for a moment.
"What does settling look like?"
"Edward drops the countersuit.
You agree not to pursue the perjury angle.
Everything goes back to the original divorce terms."
"Which means he keeps the hidden money."
"Yes."
"And the child support he never paid?"
"Gone.
In exchange for peace."
I looked out the bakery window.
A mother and her daughter were sharing a scone at the corner table, the daughter maybe seven or eight, leaning against her mother's arm.
"Patricia," I said.
"What happens if we don't settle?"
"Then we go to court.
We present the bank statement, the messages from his mother, and the security footage from yesterday.
We argue fraud on the court and move to reopen the settlement.
It will be difficult.
Marsh will make it ugly.
But the evidence is real."
"And if the evidence is real?"
"Then Edward loses.
Significantly."
I watched the little girl at the corner table break off a piece of scone and hand it to her mother.
"We don't settle," I said.
Patricia didn't sound surprised.
"I'll need to meet with Nicole.
Her account of how she came to have the documents needs to be on record, clearly and early."
"I'll bring her in this week."
"One more thing," Patricia said.
"Edward's mother — the one who sent the messages.
Is she willing to make a statement?"
I hadn't thought about that.
I hadn't thought about what it cost her to send those messages to Nicole.
To go against her own son.
"I don't know," I said honestly.
"But I can ask."
That evening, I called the number Nicole had for her.
It rang four times.
Then a woman's voice, older, careful.
"Hello?"
"This is Claire," I said.
"Edward's ex-wife."
A long pause.
"I wondered if you'd call," she said.
"I wanted to thank you.
For what you sent Nicole."
"It was long overdue." Her voice was steady but tired.
"I watched what he did during that divorce.
I watched him move money and lie to that court and tell himself it was just being smart.
And I said nothing." A pause.
"I'm not proud of that."
"Would you be willing to speak to my attorney?"
Another pause.
Longer this time.
"He's my son," she said.
"I know."
"He'll never forgive me."
"I know that too."
The silence stretched between us.
Outside my kitchen window, the evening was going dark, the street lights coming on one by one.
"Yes," she said finally.
"I'll speak to her."
I closed my eyes for a moment.
"Thank you," I said.
"His name was Rose.
My grandmother.
She's the reason the bakery exists."
"I remember Rose," the woman said quietly.
"She was a good woman."
We said goodbye.
I sat at the kitchen table for a long time after that.
Nicole was upstairs doing homework.
The house was quiet.
My phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number — different from the first one.
*Tell your daughter to think carefully about the position she's putting herself in.
She's a minor.
Courts take a dim view of minors being used as instruments in parental disputes.*
I forwarded it to Patricia without responding.
Then I went upstairs, knocked on Nicole's door, and sat on the edge of her bed while she finished her history notes.
"He sent another message," I said.
"Through a different number."
Nicole set down her pen.
"What did it say?"
I told her.
She was quiet for a moment.
Then: "He's scared."
"Yes," I said.
"He is."
May you like
"Good," she said.
And picked up her pen again.
