Chapter 7: The Moment They Tried to Buy Me
The lunch recess was forty-five minutes.
I was in the small conference room the court had assigned to our side, eating half a sandwich Diane had brought, when the knock came.
It was Pritchard.
He stood in the doorway with his jacket buttoned and his expression arranged into something meant to look reasonable.
"Miss Owens.
Do you have a few minutes?"
Diane looked at me.
"Whatever you have to say," I told him, "you can say it in front of my attorney."
He came in and sat down across from me.
"My clients would like to explore a resolution," he said.
"Given the complexity of what's been presented today, they feel it may be in everyone's interest to reach a private agreement rather than continue through the court."
"What kind of agreement?" Diane asked.
"A structured settlement.
A one-time payment to Miss Owens in exchange for a full release of all claims — current and future — related to the Owens estate, the Vermont property, and any associated financial accounts."
"How much?" I asked.
Pritchard straightened slightly.
"Eighty thousand dollars."
The number sat on the table between us.
Eighty thousand.
Against four hundred and one thousand taken from my trust.
Against three hundred and eighty thousand from the lake house.
Against years of being told I was incapable, unstable, unworthy of what my father had left for me.
"No," I said.
Pritchard nodded as if he had expected this.
"My clients are prepared to go to one hundred and twenty thousand.
Final offer."
"Mr.
Pritchard," Diane said, "your clients are currently facing exposure for fraudulent transfer, elder financial exploitation, and potentially the use of a forged testamentary document.
One hundred and twenty thousand dollars is not a settlement.
It's an insult."
Pritchard's expression didn't change.
"Miss Owens," he said, looking at me directly, "I want to be honest with you.
If this continues, it becomes very public.
Your family's name, your father's final years, your own medical history from the hospitalization — all of it becomes part of the record.
That's not a threat.
It's a reality."
I looked at him.
"My father wrote a letter," I said.
"He was afraid.
He was sick.
And the people who were supposed to protect him used that time to take what he had set aside for me." I folded the sandwich wrapper.
"I'm not settling.
Not for any amount."
Pritchard stood.
"I'll relay that to my clients."
"Please do," Diane said.
He left.
Diane waited until his footsteps faded down the hall.
"They're scared," she said.
"I know."
"Scared people do unpredictable things."
"I know that too."
She looked at me carefully.
"Are you all right?"
I thought about the question honestly.
"My father knew," I said.
"He knew what they were doing and he couldn't stop it and he wrote me a letter anyway because he wanted me to have something." I looked at the table.
"I'm all right.
I just want to finish this."
We went back into the courtroom.
Eleanor was already seated.
She didn't look at me when I came in.
But Julian did.
And what I saw in his face was not fear anymore.
It was something harder.
Something that had made a decision.
He leaned toward Eleanor and said something, very quietly, that made her close her eyes.
I didn't hear the words.
But Diane, who had been walking one step behind me, touched my arm.
"Victoria," she said quietly.
"Look at the gallery."
I looked.
Two rows from the back, a man I didn't recognize was seated with a notepad open on his knee.
He wasn't a lawyer.
He wasn't a court official.
He was writing down everything.
"Who is that?" I asked.
May you like
Diane's voice was careful.
"I think," she said, "that's a reporter."
