Chapter 5 - The Power He Never Gave
Mr. Hanley approached the witness stand with the slow care of a man who'd repaired too many fences in his life. He promised to tell the truth, settled his glasses, and confirmed that he'd watched Joseph Carter sign the affidavit in the lawyer's office.
"Was Joseph confused?" Tessa asked.
"About whether I owed him a weed trimmer? Sure. About his land? Never."
The affidavit described a power-of-attorney form my father had presented to a bank while seeking authority over Grandpa's accounts. It bore Joseph Carter's name, but Grandpa swore he hadn't signed it, hadn't authorized my father to use it, and wanted the attempted transaction documented.
"Robert said Dad asked him to handle things," Mom murmured.
"Did you hear Joseph say that?" Tessa asked when Mom later took the stand.
"No. Robert told me."
"And did he tell you Joseph disputed the signature?"
She looked down at her hands. "He said his father was getting forgetful."
Bledsoe rose to object when Tessa asked Dad about that earlier document. The judge limited the questioning. It wasn't a criminal trial, and the old affidavit couldn't settle every disputed fact by itself. But it was part of the circumstances surrounding the deed, and Mr. Hanley's testimony had supported Grandpa's capacity.
Dad's explanation came in pieces.
"I was trying to simplify his affairs," he said. "He made a huge drama out of it."
"Did you sign his name?" Tessa asked.
"I never said that."
"I asked whether you did."
"My lawyer told me not to answer questions designed to trick me."
Bledsoe advised Dad to invoke his right against self-incrimination. The judge required him to say so clearly. He did. It didn't make the unanswered question disappear.
During a second short recess, Mom caught me by the water fountain. She looked smaller than I remembered.
"Your grandfather didn't tell me any of this," she said.
"Did you ask him?"
She rubbed a pearl between her fingers. "He wouldn't talk to us near the end."
"He called me every Sunday."
The answer hit her hard enough that she stepped back.
We might have stayed there, two women staring across twelve years of missing conversations, if a court officer hadn't called us back.
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Inside, Tessa held up a newly filed document. It wasn't a deed or a tax receipt.
It was a purchase agreement for the farmhouse, with Friday at four o'clock circled in black ink.
