Chapter 2 - THE HOUSE THAT CALLED ITSELF CHARITY
Richard did not take us to his home.
He called the director of a family lodging program attached to Bennett Children’s Hospital in White Plains. By evening, my daughters and I were inside a two-bedroom apartment normally used by parents whose children were receiving long-term treatment.
The girls ate grilled-cheese sandwiches at a small kitchen table while Richard stood near the window, speaking quietly with the program director.
“I can’t stay here,” I told him when he finished. “We’re not a hospital family.”
“You can stay for seventy-two hours under the emergency placement policy. After that, we find something legitimate.”
The word legitimate stung.
Margaret had spent nineteen months making me feel that every blanket, meal and shower was charity I had not earned.
Richard placed a printed report on the counter.
The Whitmore Foundation had submitted quarterly statements to his company showing that I received furnished housing, counseling, childcare and a monthly living allowance.
My signature appeared at the bottom of every page.
“I’ve never seen these.”
“I believe you.”
“Why?”
“Because one of the forms says your youngest daughter attended full-day preschool last winter.”
Lily had never been enrolled anywhere. Margaret said tuition was wasteful for a four-year-old.
Richard’s audit team had also found that the foundation paid $4,800 a month to a company called Harbor Family Residences for our supposed apartment.
The company’s mailing address was a post-office box in Stamford.
I stared at the number. “Margaret told me Michael left her nearly half a million dollars in liabilities.”
“Did you see the debts?”
“No.”
“Did you sign over the life-insurance payment?”
“She brought papers to the funeral home. She said they authorized her to negotiate with creditors.”
Richard’s jaw shifted.
I had signed because I had not slept in three days. Lily had been crying for her father. Grace refused to take off the black shoes she wore to the funeral. Olivia kept asking whether the accident had hurt him.
Margaret had placed a pen in my hand and told me that a good widow protected her husband’s name.
Richard asked whether Michael had worked for the foundation.
“He handled operations and donor relations.”
“Did he ever mention irregular expenses?”
“No. But two weeks before he died, he asked me where I kept our original tax returns.”
Richard looked toward the girls before answering.
“Michael contacted my compliance office eleven days before the accident.”
I gripped the edge of the counter.
“What did he say?”
“That the foundation was billing donors for services it wasn’t providing.”
The apartment seemed suddenly smaller.
May you like
Richard had known Michael suspected fraud.
Yet his company had continued funding Margaret for nearly two years.
