Chapter 7: The Second Phone
My own lawyer was named Patricia Holt.
Carol's university friend.
She had short grey hair, reading glasses on a beaded chain, and the calm, unhurried manner of someone who had seen every version of this story and was never surprised by any of them.
She read through everything I brought her — the folder from Richard, the lease agreement, the paper Cassandra had given me — without a word.
When she finished, she set her glasses on the table and looked at me.
"The interference claim is Richard's," she said.
"That belongs to the firm.
What belongs to you is the marriage, the assets, and whatever is on that second phone." She tapped the paper with one finger.
"If there are financial transfers you didn't know about, that changes the shape of the divorce settlement considerably."
"How considerably?"
"Considerably enough that he'll want to settle before it goes to discovery." She picked up her glasses again.
"I'm going to need full access to your joint accounts.
Every statement going back three years."
"I can have those by this afternoon."
"Good." She stood, which meant the meeting was over.
"Don't speak to Mark directly.
If he contacts you, forward it to me.
Don't respond."
"He hasn't contacted me since the dinner."
She nodded like that told her something.
"He's already talked to someone.
He knows what's coming." She paused at the door.
"You're doing the right things, Jennifer.
Keep doing them."
Mark's lawyer called Patricia two days later.
He wanted to discuss an informal settlement.
Patricia called me after.
"He's offering the apartment, one car, and three years of spousal support," she said.
I sat with that for a moment.
"He's trying to close this before discovery."
"Yes."
"Which means what's on the second phone is worse than I think."
"Almost certainly," Patricia said.
"My advice is to decline and proceed.
But it's your decision."
"Decline," I said.
The second phone took Patricia's investigator four days to subpoena and access.
She called me on a Friday afternoon, and I could tell from the first second of silence that it was significant.
"How much did you know about Mark's investment activity?" she said.
"He had a personal brokerage account.
Separate from our joint accounts.
He said it was for long-term holdings."
"It was also used for short-term transfers.
To a holding company registered in Delaware.
The holding company has one director." A pause.
"Mark is not the director."
"Who is?"
"A man named Gerald Fosse.
Does that name mean anything to you?"
I thought.
"No."
"He's Mark's brother.
Half-brother.
Different mother.
They share a father."
I had met Mark's father twice.
He had never mentioned a son named Gerald.
"Mark has been transferring money into that company for at least two years," Patricia said.
"The total amount, as best we can currently determine, is a little over two hundred and forty thousand dollars."
The number landed like something physical.
"That's marital assets," I said.
"A significant portion of it, yes.
Which is why he wanted to settle before we found it." Her voice was steady, careful.
"Jennifer, I need you to listen to me.
This is no longer just a divorce.
This is financial concealment.
Potentially fraud.
I'm going to need to bring in a forensic accountant, and I'm going to need to notify Richard's team because some of this timeline overlaps with the interference claim."
I was standing in my kitchen.
The same kitchen where Mark's coffee mug had sat on the counter the morning after the dinner.
I had washed it and put it away, which I had done without thinking, which now seemed like the saddest detail of all of this.
"Do what you need to do," I said.
"There's one more thing," Patricia said.
"The messages on the second phone.
There are exchanges between Mark and Gerald going back eighteen months.
In several of them, Mark references your promotion specifically.
He refers to it as a problem that needs to be managed."
My grip on the phone tightened.
"He planned this," I said.
"The interference with Richard.
The financial transfers.
The divorce announcement.
He planned all of it."
"It appears so," Patricia said.
"He wanted to be gone before you had the power to fight back."
Outside my window, the city was doing what it always did — moving, indifferent, continuous.
I watched a bus stop at the corner and a woman step off and open an umbrella against a light rain.
"Patricia," I said.
"What happens to Gerald Fosse?"
"That depends on what the forensic accountant finds," she said.
"But if the transfers constitute fraud, he's exposed too."
May you like
"Good," I said.
And I meant it.
