Hugo Updike had paid his rent into that trust for twenty-four years.
He had also left a bushel of apples on Edna’s gr*ve every October.
Judge Josiah Kroll took the bench.
My father took the stand at 9:12.
He wore his charcoal suit and his Rolex.
He swore to tell the whole truth, and then he told the court that he had conducted a diligent search for the beneficiary for thirty-one years, and that the birth mother herself had formally declined contact.
“I regret it,” he said. “But a mother’s wishes are a mother’s wishes.”
“Thank you, Mr. Gilchrist,” Janet said, rising. “Just a few questions.”
She walked to the lectern without notes.
“Where is Kieran Gilchrist?”
“Arizona,” my father said. “As far as I know.”
“Has anyone from your office ever actually spoken to him?”
“No.”
“Has anyone from your office ever actually spoken to the child’s mother about where he lives?”
