“That’s four months away. You could end this now. Leak a video. Go to the press.”
I shook my head even though he could not see me. “No. I want Karen to see it happen. I want her to be there when everything falls apart.”
“That’s surprisingly strategic.”
“Grandma taught me patience.”
Harold chuckled softly. “She chose well.”
For the next four months, I built my case.
I hired a forensic accountant to trace every transaction Karen had made from Grandma’s accounts. Total confirmed theft: 2.1 million dollars over twelve years.
I obtained copies of Grandma’s cognitive assessments from Dr. Patterson – clean results every six months for the past decade. The woman Karen called senile had aced every mental-acuity test.
I cataloged every video, cross-referenced dates with bank statements, and prepared a timeline that even a first-year law student could follow.
And I waited.
Karen continued her public campaign. More charity events. More tearful interviews with local papers. She was betting everything on public sympathy, convinced that the court of opinion would pressure me into settling.
She did not know I was holding a nuclear bomb.
The mediation hearing was scheduled for March 15, eighteen months after the lawsuit began. Both parties were required to attend. A last attempt at resolution before trial.
Karen would be there. Richard would be there. Aunt Patricia had agreed to come as a family witness.
And I would finally show them all what Grandma had left behind.
March 15 arrived cold and gray.
The mediation was held in a conference room at the Hartford Superior Courthouse. Neutral ground. Fluorescent lights. A long oak table that had seen a thousand family feuds.
I arrived early with Harold. We set up on one side of the table: just us, a laptop, and a thick folder of documents.
Karen swept in at exactly nine o’clock. Black designer suit. Gold jewelry. The picture of wealthy victimhood. Richard trailed behind her looking gray and thin. Something had changed in him. He seemed diminished, like a man carrying a weight too heavy to bear.
Behind them came Victoria Smith, Karen’s attorney. Sharp suit, sharper eyes. She had built her career on aggressive litigation and had never lost an estate dispute.
Aunt Patricia slipped in last, taking a seat near the back wall. She caught my eye and gave a small, uncertain nod.
Judge Morrison, the court-appointed mediator, sat at the head of the table. Sixty years old, silver-haired, with a reputation for no-nonsense proceedings.
“This mediation is to determine whether a settlement can be reached in case 2024-CV-1847,” he began. “Both parties have the opportunity to present their positions before we discuss terms.”
Victoria stood first.
“Your Honor, my client has endured eighteen months of emotional torment. Her mother’s dying wishes were corrupted by a granddaughter who exploited a vulnerable, mentally diminished woman. We intend to prove that Margaret Marshall lacked testamentary capacity, that Mila Marshall exercised undue influence, and that this will should be declared null and void.”
Karen dabbed at her eyes right on cue.
Victoria sat down.
Judge Morrison looked at me. “Miss Marshall, your response.”
