For six years, I cared for eighty-two-year-old Mrs. Sun-Hee Choi in her Richmond District apartment in San Francisco, refusing every envelope of cash she handed me.
I couldn’t let him walk into that courtroom. Not yet. Not before I understood everything.
As Oakes slowly ascended the first few steps, I turned and hurried, not towards the courthouse doors, but around the side of the building, toward the public parking lot. The rain was coming down harder now, drumming relentlessly on my umbrella. The asphalt was a mirror, reflecting the gray sky.
I spotted his dark sedan in a far corner, its trunk already open. He was there, loading wooden art crates into the back. They looked like the carefully crafted containers he used for transporting delicate pieces. His back was to me, his shoulders hunched.
“Master Oakes!” I called out, my voice cutting through the drumming rain.
He flinched, dropping a small roll of packing tape into a puddle. He slowly straightened, turning to face me. His eyes were wide, surprised, almost caught. He wasn’t wearing his trench coat, just a simple, dark sweater that seemed too thin for the weather.
“Daniel,” he stammered, his gaze flickering away, avoiding my direct eye contact. He quickly bent down, retrieving the tape, as if the small task was vitally important.
“The syndicate lien,” I said, stepping closer, my voice low but firm. “Grace Min told us. The foreign attachment was set to activate. You filed the injunction to freeze the assets, to protect the trust.”
His hands paused, hovering over the art crates. He remained bent over, his back to me. His silence was deafening.
“And Mrs. Choi’s competency,” I pressed, my voice laced with the pain he had caused me. “Her UCSF scores. Perfect 30/30. You knew she was lucid. You filed a fraudulent petition.”
He finally straightened up, turning fully to face me. His face was pale, drawn. Rainwater dripped from his hair, running down his temples. He wrapped his arms around himself, as if warding off a chill.
“Some debts are paid with money, Daniel,” he mumbled, his voice hoarse, barely audible over the rain. “And some are paid with reputation.”
He still wouldn’t look me in the eye. His gaze was fixed on the wet asphalt between us.
“Why?” I asked, my voice breaking. “Why the lies? Why make me think you were my enemy? Why put me through this?”
He reached into the wooden crate and pulled out a thick manila file. It was old, its cardboard worn at the edges, a string tie wrapped around it. He shoved it into my hands. The force of it almost made me drop my umbrella.
“She wanted you to know,” he muttered, his voice barely a whisper. “But not yet. Not until it was done.”
He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t offer an explanation, a apology, or even a glance of understanding. He just turned, slamming the trunk of his car shut with a loud clang that echoed across the empty parking lot.
He fumbled with his car keys, unlocked the driver’s side door, and climbed in without another word. The engine roared to life. He put the car in reverse, backing out of the parking space with a sudden, jerky movement.
Then, with a spray of rainwater from his tires, Master Julian Oakes sped out of the parking lot, leaving me standing alone in the pouring rain, clutching the mysterious manila file. He was gone, abandoning the preliminary hearing, leaving me with only questions and the heavy file in my hands.
More Stories
+ There are no comments
Add yours