She read them out, one at a time, like a woman reading names off a memorial wall.
“March 1996. Rolex Datejust. Five thousand four hundred dollars. ‘Trustee’s expense.'”
“December 2019. Cartier bracelet. Seven thousand six hundred. ‘Preservation of estate property.'”
“March of this year. Hermès. Eleven thousand eight hundred. ‘Trustee education materials.'”
She turned and looked at the second row.
“Mrs. Gilchrist, would you stand, please?”
My mother did not move.
Judge Kroll leaned forward.
“Mrs. Gilchrist.”
She stood.
She stood in her good wool coat with her Birkin clutched to her chest and a bracelet glinting on her left wrist.
Every head in that room turned toward it.
“Is that the Cartier bracelet in Exhibit F?”
My mother’s hand slid over her wrist, covering it.
And that was answer enough.
One of the women from the prayer circle took her own purse and moved it, quietly, to the other side of her lap.
