Chapter 7: What an Attorney Calling Means
Carol set the document on the tray table and turned it so I could read it.
It was a letter.
Single page.
The letterhead was a law firm in Dallas.
"He had this ready," Lin said.
She was reading over my shoulder.
"He had it drafted three days ago," Carol said.
"The date is on the header."
I read the first paragraph.
It described me as a patient with a documented history of psychological instability.
It requested that all statements made by me to hospital staff be flagged as potentially unreliable pending psychiatric evaluation.
It requested that the phone I had surrendered be returned to the family as personal property.
"He was planning this," I said.
"He was planning something," Carol said.
"We don't think he knew about the recordings.
We think this letter was prepared in case you ever tried to report him.
A preemptive move."
"Can it work?" Lin asked.
"Not today," Carol said.
"The phone is already in evidence custody.
The letter has no legal authority over that.
But it tells us he's done this before — or he's been advised by someone who has." She pulled the document back.
"His attorney is going to push for a psychiatric hold evaluation.
If they get one ordered, it slows everything down."
"How do we stop that?" Lin said.
"We don't stop it.
We let it happen." Carol looked at me.
"A psychiatric evaluation ordered by his attorney will be conducted by a hospital-appointed evaluator, not his attorney's choice.
And you will pass it.
Because there is nothing wrong with you." She said it plainly, without softness, the way a fact is stated.
"What we need from you right now is a formal recorded statement.
Everything you told Harmon, on the record, with a witness present.
Before his attorney files anything else."
"I'll do it," I said.
"It may take an hour."
"I'll do it."
Carol nodded and looked at Lin.
"You can stay in the room."
Lin picked up her notebook.
The statement took ninety minutes.
I spoke and Harmon recorded and Carol sat across from me and listened with the focused stillness of someone building something one piece at a time.
Lin wrote in her notebook and said nothing.
Patricia brought water twice.
When it was finished, Harmon stopped the recorder and looked at Carol.
"Forty-one files," he said.
"Ninety-minute statement.
Three corroborating addresses from the prior case file." He closed his folder.
"That's enough."
Carol stood.
"I'm going to the waiting room."
"What are you going to tell him?" I asked.
She picked up her jacket from the back of the chair.
"That his wife has been cooperative, that her statement has been recorded, and that he should call his attorney." She paused at the door.
"And then I'm going to tell his mother the same thing, separately, so they can't coordinate their response."
She left.
The room was quiet for a moment.
Then Lin said, "She's good."
"Yes," I said.
From somewhere down the hallway came the sound of a voice rising — my husband's voice, the one he used when something was slipping out of his hands and he needed to grab it back.
Then Carol's voice, level and unhurried, cutting through his.
Then silence.
Lin reached over and took my hand.
"It's starting," she said.
"I know."
She squeezed once and didn't let go.
Then Harmon's radio crackled.
He stepped into the corner and listened.
When he turned back, his expression had shifted into something careful.
"The attorney just filed," he said.
May you like
"And your mother-in-law is gone.
She left the waiting room five minutes ago and no one saw her go."
