Chapter 7 - The Paper Tiger
The legal threat, as it turned out, was nothing more than a pathetic, toothless bark from a cornered dog.
Marcus and I didn't hire an expensive attorney. We didn't need to. Two days after Charlotte’s dramatic porch performance, Marcus’s uncle—a retired federal prosecutor who spent his retirement fishing and drinking bad coffee—dropped by our house wearing a plaid flannel shirt and holding a legal pad.
"Let me see the document your father’s lapdog sent over," Uncle Tom said, sitting at our kitchen island and accepting a mug of black coffee.
I fished the manila envelope out of the recycling bin—where it had been resting comfortably next to empty cereal boxes—and handed it across the counter.
Tom flipped through the pages, his bushy gray eyebrows knitting together as he read the pretentious legal jargon drafted by some mid-tier suburban law firm desperate for retainer fees from Arthur Sullivan. After three minutes, Tom let out a deep, booming laugh that rattled the coffee mugs.
"This is garbage," Tom said, tossing the papers back onto the counter with a dismissive wave of his hand.
"Garbage legally?" I asked, leaning against the counter.
"Garbage legally, morally, and structurally," Tom grinned, taking a sip of coffee. "In the state of [State], 'financial advancements' without a signed, notarized promissory note at the time of transfer are legally classified as gifts. Furthermore, your father’s legal team is trying to claim extortion damages while attaching itemized bills for birthday parties and country club dues. If I walked this into a courtroom, the judge would hold your father in contempt of court for wasting judicial resources within five minutes."
Marcus let out a long, slow breath of relief, running a hand through his hair. "So they can't touch us?"
"Not a chance in hell," Tom said firmly. "Arthur Sullivan is a bully who relies on people being too intimidated by his perceived wealth to check his math. The moment someone stands up to him with a spine and a baseline understanding of civil law, he folds like a cheap lawn chair. I'll draft a formal response letter on my old letterhead—just a standard 'cease and desist' with a polite reminder of what happens during discovery regarding medical battery and elder harassment."
"Medical battery?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Oh, absolutely," Tom smiled sharply. "What your mother did in that ICU room on Thursday afternoon? Tampering with a pediatric patient's oxygen supply? That’s not a family dispute, Becca. That’s a felony criminal offense. The hospital security report is already logged in the local precinct's database. If you wanted to press charges tomorrow, Eleanor would be spending her weekend in an orange jumpsuit."
I looked over at the living room, where Emma was sitting on the rug, happily coloring a picture of a purple unicorn with bright pink crayons. Her blonde curls bounced with every stroke of her hand, completely oblivious to the war being fought around her.
"No," I said quietly, shaking my head. "I don't want them in our lives. I don't want a court battle, and I don't want a criminal trial that drags Emma’s name through the mud. I just want them to disappear."
"They'll disappear," Tom said, standing up and clapping Marcus on the shoulder. "Because the one thing narcissists hate more than losing is looking foolish. Once my letter hits their attorney's desk, they'll realize they've picked a fight with the wrong family."
He was right. By Tuesday of the following week, Uncle Tom’s letter was delivered via certified mail to Arthur Sullivan’s office.
May you like
We never heard from the law firm again. We never heard from Charlotte. And for the first time in my thirty-two years of existence, my phone remained silent on a Friday evening.
***
