You answered anyway.
“Yes.”
A murmur moved through the courtroom.
The attorney tilted his head. “Isn’t it possible that affection clouded your judgment?”
“No.”
“No?”
“My affection is why I listened to her. My judgment is why I documented everything.”
His smile faded.
He tried another direction.
“Did Mrs. Whitaker ever express anger toward her children?”
You looked at the judge.
“She expressed longing first. Excuses second. Pain third. Anger came very late.”
The judge’s pen paused.
The attorney cleared his throat. “Did you encourage her to change her will?”
“No.”
“Did you benefit from the will?”
“Yes.”
Robert’s lawyer leaned forward, sensing opportunity. “So you admit you financially benefited from her decision.”
You looked at him calmly.
“I benefited from her gratitude. Her children are angry because they expected to benefit from her silence.”
The courtroom went still.
Mr. O’Connell lowered his head slightly, but you saw the corner of his mouth move.
The attorney had no further questions.
Then Mr. O’Connell played the recording.
You had not known there was one.
Mrs. Whitaker had recorded herself two days before she died, sitting in Room 8 with the light on and her Bible open. Her voice filled the courtroom, thin but clear.
“My name is Mercedes Anne Whitaker. I am eighty-four years old. My mind is clear. My heart is tired, but not confused.”
Claudia began crying immediately.
The recording continued.
“My children may say I was tricked. I was not. They may say I forgot them. I did not. Forgetting would have been easier.”
Robert looked down.
Daniel closed his eyes.
