Chapter 7: The Offer He Shouldn't Have Made
Brandon's attorney called Douglas on a Thursday morning.
The forty-eight-hour deadline had come and gone.
I had not responded to the settlement offer.
Douglas had told them I was reviewing it with counsel, which was true, and that I would be in touch, which was also true, and which had apparently been enough to make Brandon's attorney call again with a revised number.
One hundred and sixty thousand.
Up from one hundred and twenty.
Douglas called me between patients.
"He increased the offer," he said.
"I heard you."
"He's nervous."
"He should be."
"Gwen.
Before you decide — I want you to understand what going forward means.
It means depositions.
It means your financial records, your medical records, your marriage on paper in a civil filing.
It means Brandon's attorney will try to make the case that you were a difficult wife, that you worked too much, that the marriage failed for reasons that had nothing to do with him."
"I know."
"It will not be comfortable."
"Douglas.
He stood in a hospital hallway and told a room full of strangers that I was less than a woman because I couldn't carry a child.
He moved two hundred and thirty thousand dollars out of accounts I funded.
He used my former best friend as a financial instrument and then threatened her into silence." I paused.
"Tell his attorney the number is not the issue."
A beat.
"What is the issue?" Douglas asked.
"Full disclosure of every transfer.
Every account.
Every communication with Terrence Holt and Meridian Horizon.
Signed cooperation with the state attorney's office.
And a formal written acknowledgment of what he did."
"He will never agree to that."
"I know."
"Then what are we doing?"
"We're making him say no," I said.
"Formally.
In writing.
So that when Adrienne Cole asks him why he refused to cooperate with a civil resolution, he'll have to explain it."
Douglas was quiet for a moment.
"You've been thinking about this."
"I've had three months."
The call with Brandon's attorney happened two days later.
Douglas handled it.
I sat in the corner of his office and listened.
Brandon's attorney was a man named Philip Crane.
He had a smooth voice and the habit of pausing slightly too long before answering, as if he was deciding in real time how much truth to let through.
"My client is prepared to be generous," Crane said.
"He understands there was pain in this situation.
He wants to resolve it fairly."
"Dr.
Abernathy's terms have been communicated," Douglas said.
"The cooperation clause is a non-starter.
My client has no obligation to involve himself in any separate investigation."
"Then we have nothing further to discuss at this time."
A pause.
Longer than the others.
"Mr.
Sterling.
My client is prepared to go to one hundred and ninety thousand.
Final offer.
That is a significant —"
"Mr.
Crane." Douglas's voice was even.
"My client is not interested in a number.
If your client would like to revisit the terms as stated, we're available.
Otherwise, we'll see you in the filing."
Crane's voice changed slightly.
Just slightly.
"You understand that a civil proceeding will be difficult for Dr.
Abernathy as well."
"She's aware."
"There are aspects of the marriage — her schedule, her emotional availability — that will be relevant to establishing context."
I looked at Douglas.
He looked at me.
"Mr.
Crane," Douglas said.
"Are you threatening my client?"
"I'm describing the nature of civil litigation."
"Then I'll describe it too.
Your client transferred marital assets through a shell company registered to a woman he was having an affair with, facilitated by a financial advisor who has already been contacted by the state attorney's office.
Any attempt to redirect this proceeding toward Dr.
Abernathy's work schedule will clarify for the court exactly what your client is trying to avoid." A pause.
"We'll be in touch."
Douglas ended the call.
He set the phone down on the desk and looked at me.
"He'll go back to Brandon tonight," I said.
"Yes."
"And Brandon will tell him to find another angle."
"Probably."
"What angle does he have left?"
Douglas opened his desk drawer and took out a single sheet of paper.
He slid it across to me.
It was a printout of an email.
Sent from a personal account I didn't recognize to a woman named Carol Abernathy.
My mother.
The email had been sent four days ago.
It described, in careful and selective language, a version of my marriage in which I had been cold, absent, and emotionally unavailable.
In which Brandon had tried his best.
In which the divorce had been, in this telling, essentially my fault.
It was signed: *Brandon.*
I read it twice.
My mother had not mentioned it to me.
"She called me yesterday," Douglas said quietly.
"She wanted to know if it was true."
I set the paper down on the desk.
"What did you tell her?"
"That she should call you."
I looked at the email.
At Brandon's name at the bottom.
At the careful, surgical way he had written it — nothing provably false, everything designed to plant doubt.
He had gone to my mother.
"He's not just fighting the case," I said.
"No," Douglas said.
"He's trying to isolate you."
I sat with that for a moment.
Then I picked up my phone and called my mother.
She answered on the second ring.
"Gwen," she said.
Her voice was careful in a way it almost never was with me.
"Mom.
May you like
I need you to listen to me.
And then I need you to tell me what he said."
