Chapter 4 - The Lawyer’s Table
Greg Miller’s office was on the fourteenth floor of a limestone building overlooking Monument Circle.
It didn't look like the television version of a lawyer's office; there were no leather-bound books or mahogany credenzas, just fluorescent lights, three computer monitors displaying spreadsheets, and four cardboard banker's boxes labeled *Miller v. Vance*.
Greg—Aaron's cousin, who had attended Theo’s baptism and who had personally dropped off three casseroles while Theo was in the pediatric ICU—pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose and stared at the documents spread across his desk.
"This is bad, Kendra," Greg said.
"Bad as in we can't do anything?"
"Bad as in your mother is in catastrophic legal jeopardy," he said, turning the monitor toward me. "Sarah Lin didn't just find the ledger. She found the bank’s certified audit trail from 2019."
He clicked a folder open. A high-resolution scan of a bank deposit slip appeared.
"On August 14th, the cashier’s check for twenty-four thousand was deposited into your mother’s account. On August 15th, she withdrew five thousand in cash. On August 16th, she wrote a check to 'Freeman Lake Estates' for eighteen thousand five hundred dollars. That matches the purchase deed on the trailer lot to the penny."
I closed my eyes for a long moment. Even though I knew it, seeing the cold, black-and-white ledger trail made the breath leave my lungs.
"What about the fourteen hundred she gave us?" I asked.
"She withdrew that from an ATM on the way to the hospital," Greg said, tapping a line on the screen. "In seven separate transactions of two hundred dollars. She gave you the pocket change from a twenty-four-thousand-dollar charity drive."
"Can she claim the money was meant for her? As the organizer?"
"Not a chance," Greg leaned back, folding his hands. "The auxiliary was registered under a 501(c)(3) umbrella through the church. The flyers explicitly stated: *All proceeds go directly to the medical expenses of Theodore Miller.* That is a restricted public trust under Indiana law. If an organizer diverts restricted charitable funds to personal use, it’s a Class 6 felony at minimum. But because the amount exceeds ten thousand dollars, it crosses into Level 5 felony territory. That carries one to six years in state prison."
He paused, looking at me carefully. "Kendra, if we file this, it’s not a quiet family dispute. The moment I send a formal demand letter to Chase Bank and notify the Marion County Prosecutor’s office of a forged public instrument, the machine starts moving on its own. You can't call it off if you feel bad later."
I looked down at my hands.
I thought about the night Theo was three, running a fever of 104, and Aaron and I sitting on the kitchen floor crying because we didn't have the forty-dollar copay to take him to the urgent care clinic. We had scraped together thirty-two dollars in loose quarters from the couch cushions and begged the receptionist to take an IOU for the rest.
While my mother was sitting on a pontoon boat at Lake Freeman, drinking chardonnay paid for by the church choir.
"I won't feel bad," I said.
"What do you want out of this?" Greg asked. "Do you want her in jail?"
"I want the money back," I said clearly. "Every cent. Plus the interest we paid on Uncle Dan's loan. I want it put into an irrevocable trust for Theo's education and his future medical care. If he needs another valve replacement when he's sixteen, I don't ever want to look at him and wonder how we’re going to keep the lights on."
Greg nodded, making a note on a legal pad. "And what about the family?"
"The family already made their choice," I said. "Yesterday at four o'clock, when they pushed Theo out of the way for a pink cake."
"Alright," Greg said, uncapping a fountain pen. "Then we don't start with a police report. We start with a shot across the bow. I'm going to draft a formal Civil Demand Letter and an Affidavit of Forgery. I’ll give her seventy-two hours to transfer twenty-five thousand dollars into an escrow account and sign an agreement to reimburse the auxiliary, or we file the criminal complaint with the prosecutor on Friday morning."
"Will she take it seriously?"
Greg smiled, but it was cold. "When she sees my firm’s letterhead accompanied by Sarah Lin’s sworn affidavit and a copy of the check with her handwriting, she won't have a choice. She either sells that lake lot by the end of the week, or she hires a criminal defense lawyer."
I stood up, shaking his hand. "Send it."
As I walked out of the office into the crisp autumn breeze of Indianapolis, my phone buzzed again.
It was a notification from Facebook.
Mallory had just made a public post.
I clicked it.
There was a photo of my sister, smiling sweetly through apparent tears, holding a framed ultrasound picture.
The caption read:
*“Heartbroken that some people in our own bloodline can’t rejoice when God performs a miracle. To those who tried to ruin our special day yesterday with tantrums and jealousy: we forgive you. Our sweet baby girl will grow up knowing only love, grace, and real family loyalty. #FamilyFirst #GraceOverGrudges #BabyVance”*
The comments were already flying in.
*Clara Vance:* *Some people are just naturally toxic, sweetie. You keep shining.*
*Evelyn Vance:* *A mother’s heart breaks, but we must choose love. You were the bigger person, Mallory.*
*Wayne (Mallory’s husband):* *Real ones know who's real. Don't sweat the small stuff, babe.*
I stared at the screen for three seconds, locked my phone, and put it in my purse.
May you like
"Keep talking, Evelyn," I whispered to the autumn wind. "The bill is in the mail."
***