Be quiet, child, Junior snapped, waving his hand. This is grown-up business. You be quiet, Emma shouted. The sudden force of her voice shocked everyone. Even the general looked at her with new respect. Emma was not a lawyer. She was not rich. But she was 10. And her moral compass was simple. These people were bad.
They were the bullies. “You’re the disappointments,” she said, her voice ringing in the silent, expensive office. Junior’s mouth fell open. Brenda’s face turned from cold to white hot rage. He said so. Emma went on, pointing a finger at them. He said you only wanted his money. He said you never visited. He was right. You didn’t. I was there.
He was all alone. He was just sad and his hands hurt. But you didn’t know that. You weren’t there. She stood her ground. A small girl in a simple dress holding a Medal of Honor in one hand and a challenge coin in the other. Brenda looked at Emma, then at the foot locker. She saw the journal. She saw the metal.
And a new terrifying look of calculation entered her eyes. So she said to Graves, “This is their play. They’ve invented a longlost army buddy connection. How touching. How pathetic.” “Allias Carter was not pathetic,” the general said, his voice suddenly a low growl. He was a hero. A man your family will never be fit to stand beside.
We’ll see about that. Graves sneered. A court will find this all very suspicious. A 10-year-old girl inherits a billion dollar trust. I think not. We’ll have this child on a stand. We’ll have her mother’s life examined. Every dollar she’s ever earned. Every bill she’s ever been laid on. By the time we are done, they will wish they had never heard the name Henry Porter.
Mary was pale. She looked like she was going to be sick. This was her worst nightmare. This was the trouble she had spent her life trying to avoid. General, she whispered. Please give them the money. I don’t want it. I don’t want any of this. I just want to take my daughter and go home. No, Emma said. She walked over and took her mother’s hand.
No, Mama. Mr. Hank wanted us to have it. He was trading us for the cookies. Brenda let out a laugh. It was a sharp, ugly sound. A billion dollars for cookies. This is better than I thought. We’ll have her declared simple-minded. This is a slam dunk. That will be enough. General Sinclair roared. The command in his voice was absolute.
It was the voice of a man who had sent men into battle. The porters and their lawyer fell silent. Mr. Graves, you will file your motions and I will file my responses, but you will not threaten my clients. You will not threaten a 10-year-old child in my office. He pointed to Mary and Emma. These two people are the primary beneficiaries of Henry Porter’s estate.
As such, they are my sole focus. Hank, my client, was aware you would do this. He was not a foolish man. He was, in fact, prepared. He looked at the leather journal in Emma’s hand. That journal, Brenda scoffed. A dead man’s diary from 1944. It’s meaningless. You are mistaken, the general said. Hank was a meticulous man.
He knew a contest was coming. He knew you would claim he was scenile. He knew you would claim undue influence. So he prepared a defense. He looked at Emma. Emma, look at the journal again. The other one. Emma looked confused. There’s just Oh. Tucked inside the leather cover of the old journal was another book.
A simple spiralbound cheap notebook, the kind Emma used for school. She pulled it out. That, the general said, is Hank’s journal, the one he was writing in St. Jude’s. He looked at Brenda. It’s his own deposition, a daily record. He wrote down every single day he was in that hospital, what he ate, which nurse was on duty, what he watched on television, and most importantly, who visited him.
The general walked to his desk. He had it notorized every single week by a private notary I sent in. It’s a legal document, a two-year long record of his sound mind and of your absolute total abandonment. That is the arsenal, as he called it. That is what we will present in court. Brenda Porter’s face was a mask of hate.
She had no response. Now, the general said, “This meeting is over. Security will show you out.” The drive from the general’s office was silent. Mary and Emma sat in the back of the black town car. Mary was still shaking. Emma was holding the foot locker on her lap. I’m sorry, mama. Emma said, “Sorry for what, baby?” “For getting us in trouble.
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