Chapter 9: What the Lawyer Said
Her name was Patricia Hale.
Daniel had found her through a colleague — a family law attorney with a second specialty in civil fraud.
We met her in her office on Tuesday morning, the three of us: Daniel, Rowan, and me.
She read through the documents without speaking.
She was methodical.
She turned each page with the same unhurried attention and set it face-down when she was done.
When she finished, she folded her hands on the desk.
"The forged consent form is the centerpiece," she said.
"If the signature can be verified as fraudulent — and given what you've described, I believe it can — you are looking at fraud, falsification of medical records, and potentially conspiracy, depending on what the investigation turns up about the agency and its operators."
"The woman who ran the agency is d*ad," I said.
"Her records may not be.
And your mother's letter is significant.
It's not a confession in the legal sense, but it establishes intent and foreknowledge.
A prosecutor will find it useful." She looked at Rowan.
"You said you have the original documents?"
"Carol has them.
She's kept them in a fireproof box for sixteen years."
Patricia nodded.
"I'll need to speak with her.
And I'll need to retain a handwriting expert to analyze the signature on the consent form." She paused.
"I want to be honest with you about what this process looks like.
It will be slow.
It will be difficult.
Your mother will hire her own attorney.
She will likely argue that she acted out of concern for your wellbeing and that the harm was unintentional."
"She wrote that she never regretted it," Daniel said.
"Her attorney will reframe that.
They always do." Patricia looked at me.
"The question I need you to answer — not today, but before we file anything — is what outcome you want.
Criminal charges carry their own timeline and their own cost.
A civil suit for damages is a separate path.
You may want both.
You may want neither and simply want the record corrected." She paused.
"There is also the question of Rowan's legal identity.
His current documentation is based on a fraudulent adoption.
That needs to be addressed regardless of what else you decide."
Rowan had been quiet through most of this.
Now he said, "What does correcting my legal identity involve?"
"A petition to the court, supported by the DNA evidence and the original hospital records.
It's not a fast process, but it's straightforward given what you have." She looked at him directly.
"You were not abandoned.
You were taken.
The record should reflect that."
He nodded once.
On the way out, in the elevator, the three of us stood without speaking for a moment.
Then Rowan said, "She's going to fight it."
"Yes," I said.
"Are you ready for that?"
I thought about my mother sitting at my kitchen table.
The way the color had left her face.
The way she had said *I did what I thought was right* as if that were a door she could close the conversation behind.
"I've been carrying her version of events for eighteen years," I said.
"I think it's time she carried some of the weight herself."
The elevator doors opened.
Patricia had told us to expect a call from my mother's attorney within the week.
She was right.
It came on Thursday.
His name was Gerald Marsh, and he called my cell phone directly, which told me my mother had given him my number.
"Mrs.
Calloway," he said, "I'd like to suggest that this matter might be resolved more quietly than you may be planning.
My client is an elderly woman.
She acted, however misguidedly, out of love for her family.
A public legal proceeding would be painful for everyone involved, including your sons."
"My sons," I said, "include the one she transferred to a stranger for fourteen thousand dollars."
A pause.
"I understand your anger," he said.
"I don't think you do," I said.
"But Patricia Hale will be in touch."
I ended the call.
Daniel was watching me from across the room.
"Marsh," I said.
"Gerald Marsh.
Do you know him?"
"Old firm.
Old money.
She didn't waste any time."
"No," I said.
"She never does."
My phone buzzed again.
A text from my mother's number.
*Please.
Before this goes any further.
Can we just talk?*
I set the phone face-down on the counter.
May you like
From upstairs, I could hear the sound of three voices — Liam, Eli, and Rowan — and something that might have been a game, or an argument, or both, the way it always was with brothers.
I left the phone where it was.
