Chapter 7: What the Accountant Found
Patricia called me on a Thursday, eleven days after our first meeting.
"Are you somewhere you can talk?" she asked.
I stepped out of the school pickup line and walked to the far end of the parking lot.
"Go ahead," I said.
"The forensic accountant finished her review of the brokerage statements and the joint tax returns." A pause.
"There are significant discrepancies."
"How significant?"
"Over the past two years, approximately sixty-two thousand dollars has been moved out of the joint brokerage account in increments small enough to avoid automatic reporting flags.
The transfers were made to an account we've now identified as belonging to a limited liability company registered in Delaware."
I leaned against the fence.
"What kind of company?" I asked.
"On paper, a consulting firm.
One employee.
Him." Another pause.
"The company has been receiving payments that appear to be income he's been routing around your joint return.
The accountant estimates the unreported income over two years is somewhere between forty and fifty thousand dollars."
The school bell rang somewhere behind me.
"So he wasn't just planning to leave," I said.
"He was planning to leave with significantly more than his fair share," Patricia said.
"This constitutes financial fraud within the marriage.
It also affects the asset division calculation substantially in your favor."
"What happens now?"
"We file.
We attach the accountant's findings.
We request a full financial disclosure and a freeze on any further asset transfers." She paused.
"I also need to tell you — his attorney contacted my office yesterday."
"He already has an attorney?"
"He retained one six days ago."
Six days ago.
Four days after our conversation at the kitchen table.
He'd moved fast.
"What did his attorney say?" I asked.
"They want to discuss a settlement.
They're proposing he keeps the brokerage account and the LLC assets in exchange for a clean split of the joint accounts and the house going to you."
"He wants to keep the sixty-two thousand dollars he hid."
"Yes."
"And the forty to fifty thousand in unreported income."
"Effectively, yes."
I watched a group of children come out through the school doors, backpacks bouncing, looking for their parents.
"Tell his attorney no," I said.
"I expected that answer," Patricia said.
"I'll prepare the filing.
I want you to know — once we file with the accountant's report attached, this becomes a matter of public record.
He will know you have everything."
"Good," I said.
"I want him to know."
My daughter came through the doors.
She spotted me at the fence and waved, her whole arm swinging.
I waved back.
"Patricia," I said, "file it."
"I'll have it done by end of day."
I hung up and walked toward my daughter with my arms open.
"Mom, you're all the way over here," she said, slightly indignant.
"I know," I said.
"I needed some air."
She took my hand and we walked to the car.
She talked about a project she was doing on butterflies.
She talked about her friend's new dog.
She talked the entire way home.
I listened to every word.
That evening, Daniel came home to find a copy of the filing on the kitchen counter.
Patricia had messengered it over at four o'clock, as promised.
I was upstairs helping with homework when I heard him come in.
I heard the silence that followed — the particular quality of silence that means someone has stopped moving.
Then I heard him dial a number.
His voice came up through the floor, low and urgent, but I couldn't make out the words.
May you like
I didn't need to.
I already knew what the filing said.
