Two hundred thousand dollars.
Linda’s attorney did not even blink, which confirmed my suspicion that someone else was funding her defense.
“Furthermore,” Judge Morrison continued, “the defendant is prohibited from any contact with the alleged victim or her family members.”
“Your Honor,” the attorney said, “Mrs. Barrett would like to address the court regarding her mother.”
“Absolutely not. No contact means no contact.”
As we left the courthouse, I found myself looking over my shoulder, half expecting Linda to follow us. The restraining order was just a piece of paper. If she had been desperate enough to drug our mother, what would stop her from approaching us directly?
“She looked terrible,” Mom said as we reached the parking lot.
“Good.”
“Carol, she’s still my daughter.”
“No, Mom. She stopped being your daughter when she decided to destroy your life for money.”
“I know. But seeing her like that makes you feel guilty for protecting yourself.”
“Maybe don’t. Whatever sympathy you’re feeling, remember Margaret Foster. Remember the twelve other families Webb targeted. Linda isn’t a victim here.”
“I know that intellectually. But emotionally…”
“Emotionally, I keep thinking about the little girl who used to climb into my bed during thunderstorms.”
“That little girl grew up to be someone who planned to drug you and steal your home.”
“I know.”
But I could see the conflict in Mom’s eyes. Forty-seven years of loving Linda could not be erased by three weeks of betrayal, no matter how complete that betrayal had been.
That afternoon, we drove to our second nursing-home visit. This time we were looking for James Chen, whose daughter had used Webb’s services to have him committed after he refused to move in with her family.
Sunshine Manor was a step down from where we had found Margaret. The building was older, shabbier, with the kind of institutional feel that announced its residents were problems to be managed rather than people to be cared for.
James Chen was in the day room, sitting alone at a table working on a crossword puzzle. He was a small, neat man in his seventies, wearing clothes that looked expensive but did not fit properly anymore.
“Mr. Chen,” Mom approached carefully, “my name is Dorothy Wilson. I wondered if I could sit with you for a few minutes.”
He looked up with intelligent eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses.
“Are you from the state? Another inspector?”
“No, just a friend who wanted to check on how you’re doing.”
“How I’m doing?” He set down his pencil. “I’m doing terribly. Thank you for asking.”
His directness was refreshing after Margaret’s heartbreaking confusion.
“Can you tell me what happened?” Mom asked.
“My daughter decided I was too old to live alone. When I disagreed, she had me declared mentally incompetent and shipped here like a piece of furniture.”
“Are you mentally incompetent?”
James gestured to the crossword puzzle.
“Today’s New York Times, Friday edition. I’ve completed it every day for thirty years. Does that seem incompetent to you?”
Mom examined the puzzle. It was nearly finished, with only a few difficult clues remaining.
“What was your profession, Mr. Chen?”
“Retired professor of mathematics. Forty-two years at the university. I published over sixty research papers and supervised thirty-seven doctoral dissertations.”
“And your daughter thought you couldn’t take care of yourself?”
“My daughter thought my house was too valuable to sit empty while I lived in it alone.”
The same story. The same motivation. Adult children who saw their parents’ assets as inheritances being wasted on the parents themselves.
“How long have you been here?”
“Eight months. My daughter visits once a month, always with papers for me to sign. Always with reasons why I need to stay here for my own safety.”
“What kind of papers?”
“Financial documents, mostly. Transferring accounts. Authorizing expenditures. I refuse to sign them, but she keeps trying.”
“So you still have control of your finances?”
“Theoretically. But I can’t access my accounts from here. They don’t allow residents to handle money.”
James Chen was trapped in a different way than Margaret Foster. Where Margaret had been completely dispossessed, James was being slowly bled through a longer, more subtle process.
“Mr. Chen,” I said, “would you like help getting out of here?”
He studied us carefully.
“Young lady, I’ve been trying to get out of here since the day I arrived. My daughter has legal guardianship. The facility won’t release me without her permission.”
“What if we told you there might be another way?”
“Who are you people, really?”
Mom explained about Linda’s attempted scheme, about Marcus Webb, about the other families we had discovered.
“So you’re volunteers,” he said. “Freelance advocates for elderly-abuse victims. Something like that.”
“And you think you can help me?”
“We think we can try.”
James was quiet for a long moment, studying his crossword puzzle.
“The answer to seventeen across,” he said finally, “is justice. Seven letters. Defined as what victims hope for but rarely receive.”
He filled in the letters with steady handwriting.
“I’d very much like your help,” he said.
