Chapter 3 - THE JAG OFFICER WHO DIDN’T PRETEND TO BE MY LAWYER
Eric came at seven that evening.
No uniform.
Dark sweater.
Exhausted face.
He stood near the doorway until I nodded him in.
“You scared the hell out of everyone.”
“Not everyone.”
His expression tightened.
“I heard what your mother said.”
“So did half the room.”
He pulled a chair closer.
“I need to be clear about something before we talk.”
“What?”
“I’m not your lawyer.”
I almost smiled.
“Very JAG of you.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“What I can do is tell you why the documents on my phone bothered me enough to preserve them and contact the right people.”
I listened.
Three days before the memorial, Thomas’s estate administrator emailed Eric a packet that had been mistakenly routed through an old family folder.
Thomas and Diane had used the same estate-planning firm years earlier.
Inside the misrouted scan was a psychiatric-capacity evaluation bearing my name.
I had never undergone one.
The doctor listed on it practiced in Tucson.
I lived near Washington, D.C.
The form claimed I had exhibited paranoia, financial confusion and impaired judgment after surgery.
“What date?”
Eric gave it.
The previous Tuesday.
I had spent that Tuesday at Walter Reed for a surgical follow-up.
No psychiatric evaluation.
The packet also contained a durable power of attorney naming Diane as my agent.
My signature looked close.
Not right.
Then a deed-preparation worksheet concerning my townhouse.
And a printout of bank transfers from an investment account I inherited from Dad.
Eric stared at me.
“Did you authorize any of that?”
“No.”
“Any financial power of attorney to your mother?”
“No.”
“Any deed transfer?”
“No.”
He nodded.
“That’s why I started asking questions.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“I tried.”
My missing phone history suddenly mattered.
Eric had called twice.
Both times during periods Chloe had my phone because she claimed she was helping install an update.
“I never saw them.”
“I figured that out.”
Then he told me the worst part.
The psychiatric report had not merely been drafted.
It had been attached to an email from Diane to a private attorney with the subject line:
Need incapacity package ready before Friday.
The memorial had been Thursday.
Friday was tomorrow.
“What happens Friday?”
Eric shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
That honesty calmed me more than certainty would have.
“Could she actually declare me incompetent with one fake form?”
“No.”
“Could she take my house?”
“Not legally just because she has a forged document.”
“Then why prepare all of this?”
“That’s what law enforcement and your own counsel need to determine.”
No magic.
No instant reversal.
Just enough evidence to know somebody had been laying tracks toward something.
Then Eric handed me one more fact.
The investment account showed three outgoing transfers.
$42,000.
$18,500.
$67,000.
Total: $127,500.
I recognized none of them.
And one transfer had gone to a company named Mercer Lifestyle Holdings LLC.
My mother’s middle name was Mercer.
May you like
So was mine.
But only one of us had created a company with it.
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