“Yes.”
“Sixty-two miles away?”
“Yes.”
The judge tapped the certified transcript.
“Then explain how your sister was speaking in this courtroom at that exact moment.”
Simon looked at our mother.
It was the smallest movement, but everyone saw it.
Diane rose slowly.
The tissue she had prepared remained untouched beside her handbag.
“Rebecca may have signed it earlier,” she said.
“Perhaps the notary completed the details later.”
“That is not what your sworn statement says,” the judge replied.
Diane’s voice sharpened.
“We were grieving.
Dates became confused.”
I removed a second document from the folder.
“This is the courthouse entry log,” I said.
“It includes the scan of my driver’s license at security.
The waiver states that the same license was presented at Lakeshore Bank.”
The judge compared the documents.
The license number matched.
The problem was that the physical card had been secured in a courthouse evidence pouch during part of my testimony.
In the earlier fraud case, the opposing attorney had challenged my identity and credentials.
The clerk had copied my license, recorded its number, and held it until the noon recess.
The same card could not have been presented to a bank notary sixty-two miles away.
Diane sat down.
Simon no longer looked amused.
The judge turned to the waiver.
“Where is the original?”
My mother stared at him.
“We filed the copy we had.”
“That was not my question.”
“The original was misplaced.”
“By whom?”
“We do not know.”
Simon interrupted.
“Rebecca probably took it.”
A quiet sound moved through the gallery.
It was not laughter.
It was disbelief.
I looked at my brother.
“You are claiming I stole the original of a document I say I never signed?”
“You steal attention,” he snapped.
“You steal sympathy.
You have been doing it your whole life.”
The judge’s expression hardened.
“Mr.
Jameson, personal attacks will not substitute for evidence.”
Simon dropped into his chair.
I took out the third item in my folder: the discovery report generated from the estate computer Diane had used after Dad’s death.
The court had ordered her to preserve that computer when I filed my petition for an accounting.
She claimed she used it only to pay household bills.
The report told a different story.
A file named with my initials and the word “disclaimer” had been created six weeks after the date printed on the waiver.
It had been edited eleven times.
The final version had been exported from Simon’s user profile.
