Chapter 8: The Things That Cannot Be Taken Back
Brandon's attorney arrived at half past one.
Her name was Gwen's attorney arrived twelve minutes later.
Her name was Dana Marsh — and when Brandon's attorney saw her walk through the door, he went very still.
"You're Dana Marsh," he said.
"I am," she said pleasantly.
"You're from Caldwell and Marsh."
"I was," she said.
"I left the firm two weeks ago." She set her briefcase on the table.
"Conflict of interest."
Brandon looked at her.
Then at his own attorney.
"She was his lawyer."
"She was the firm's lawyer," his attorney said carefully.
"There's a distinction."
"She knows everything."
"Mr.
Caldwell," Dana said, "I'm now representing your wife.
Anything I know from prior representation is governed by privilege and ethical walls.
What I know from my own investigation as your wife's counsel is another matter entirely." She opened her briefcase.
"Shall we begin?"
What followed was not a dramatic confrontation.
It was quieter than that, and in some ways worse.
Dana laid out three documents on the table.
The first was a full accounting of the Pacific Coast Private Banking account — six years of deposits and withdrawals, obtained through Nicole's petition discovery process.
The second was a property assessment for the house in Anaheim.
The third was a letter from the district attorney's office acknowledging receipt of a financial disclosure and opening a preliminary review.
Brandon's attorney read all three without speaking.
Then he leaned toward his client and said something very quietly.
Brandon's face did not change.
But his hand, resting on the table, curled slowly into a fist and then opened again.
"He's advising you to cooperate," Gwen said.
She hadn't meant to say it out loud.
But she had watched that hand for eight years and she knew what it meant.
Brandon looked at her.
"You don't know what he's saying."
"I know what that hand means," she said.
"You do it when you've run out of options."
His attorney cleared his throat.
"Perhaps we could have a moment—"
"No," Brandon said.
He was looking at Gwen.
Just at Gwen.
The room had gone very quiet.
"You really kept all of it.
Eight years."
"Every receipt," she said.
"Every transfer.
Every promise."
"I thought you were just—" He stopped.
"Just what?"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Maybe he couldn't.
Maybe the end of it was too honest for this room, or for any room.
Rosalind stood up from the chair she had finally taken near the wall.
"Brandon.
Don't say anything else."
"Mom." His voice was tired.
"Sit down."
She didn't sit down.
But she didn't speak again either.
"What do you want?" he asked Gwen.
"Actually.
Not the legal version.
What do you want?"
She thought about it.
Not for long — she had been thinking about it for eight years without knowing she was thinking about it.
"I want my name off the mortgage and my half of the equity," she said.
"I want reimbursement for the forty-three thousand, six hundred dollars, documented and transferred within thirty days.
I want the joint account closed and my half withdrawn today.
And I want you to tell your mother, out loud, in front of at least one witness, that I was a good wife."
The room was completely silent.
Brandon looked at Rosalind.
Rosalind looked at the floor.
"Mom," he said.
"Don't ask me to—"
"Mom." His voice was not angry.
It was something closer to final.
"She paid for your surgery.
She drove you to every appointment for six months.
She organized every family event for eight years and I gave her two hundred dollars for your birthday and she still showed up." He paused.
"Tell her."
Rosalind's chin lifted.
Her eyes were bright — not with tears, with something harder.
Pride, maybe.
Or the last of it.
"You were a good wife," she said.
The words came out like something being set down after a long time of carrying it.
Heather made a sound from across the room.
She pressed her hand to her mouth.
Gwen nodded once.
"Thank you."
May you like
Then she looked at Dana.
"Draw it up."
