The gallery behind her was full. My father’s sister, Aunt Colette, was there with her daughters. A woman I didn’t recognize who I later learned was Diane’s hairdresser, brought in purely to fill a seat and nod along. Diane had spent months preparing her audience, building the narrative through phone calls and tearful lunches and carefully worded voicemails about how worried she was, how much she missed Robert, how frightened she was for his daughter. She had turned my extended family into a Greek chorus, and now she was giving them the performance she had rehearsed.
Her lawyer, a man named Curtis Hamley in a suit that was one size too tight, addressed the bench with the practiced confidence of someone who had been told the outcome was already arranged. He requested the immediate appointment of Diane Callaway as temporary conservator over the Callaway Family Trust, citing the respondent’s inability to manage her own affairs and the resulting financial deterioration of the estate.
Three hundred and ten thousand dollars, missing from the trust’s operating account. No oversight, no filings, transfers to unknown entities. If that wasn’t evidence of incapacity, Curtis told the judge, he didn’t know what was.
Judge Alderman was in his early sixties, silver-haired, with the face of a man who had been watching people lie to him for decades and had developed a specific kind of patience for it, the patience of someone waiting for the moment the lie becomes undeniable. He looked at me over his reading glasses.
“Miss Callaway. These are serious allegations. How do you respond?”
