They were staring at Diane.
Elena placed a second document under the projector.
“The signature attributed to Ms.
Callaway was notarized eleven days after Mr.
Callaway entered intensive care,” she said.
“The notary’s log contains no corresponding entry.
The address listed for Ms.
Callaway is not her home.
It is a private mailbox rented by Mrs.
Diane Callaway.”
Diane’s tissue stopped moving.
Curtis leaned toward her and whispered something.
She answered without taking her eyes off Elena.
Judge Alderman tapped the folder.
“The court also has a copy of the mailbox application.
It was opened with Mrs.
Callaway’s driver’s license and personal credit card.”
Diane’s voice sharpened.
“I handled mail for the family.
Everyone knew that.”
“Then everyone should have known about the company,” Elena said.
Curtis rose again.
“Argumentative.”
“Sustained,” the judge said.
“Ms.
Ruiz, continue with the records.”
Elena turned to the next exhibit.
The first transfer was for $240,000.
It had left an operating account belonging to my father’s property company nine days after he was admitted to the hospital.
The money traveled to Juniper Vale Services, remained there for less than forty-eight hours, and then divided into four smaller transfers.
One went to a brokerage account controlled by Diane.
One went to an escrow company holding a deposit on a condominium she had never disclosed to the estate.
One paid a private investigator who had spent two months documenting my movements.
The last transfer went to Curtis Hamley’s client trust account.
Curtis’s face turned the color of wet paper.
“I received a retainer,” he said quickly.
“I had no knowledge of the source.”
Judge Alderman looked down at the transaction date.
“The retainer was paid four months before this petition was filed.”
“I was providing estate-planning advice.”
“Your billing statement describes the matter as competency strategy.”
No one moved.
The phrase seemed to hang above the tables: competency strategy.
Diane pressed both palms against the edge of the table.
Her Cartier watch slid below the cuff of her cream blouse, catching the light again.
The same watch my father had fastened around her wrist while she cried with gratitude now trembled over records showing that she had been planning to take control of me before he was even dead.
“This is being twisted,” she said.
“My husband was worried about his daughter.
He asked me to prepare for the possibility that she could not manage the estate.”
I heard someone in the gallery whisper, “Oh my God.”
Judge Alderman looked at me.
“Miss Callaway, did your father ever discuss a conservatorship with you?”
“No, Your Honor.”
Diane gave a brittle laugh.
“Of course he did not.
That was the problem.
