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.
The next forty-eight hours were a blur of frantic phone calls, missed appointments, and whispered conversations. The restraining orders technically prohibited me from contacting Mrs. Choi’s medical providers. But if Oakes could lie about her competency, I could bend a few rules to find the truth. My small savings, before the freeze, had just enough for a car service and printing fees.
I started with her primary care physician, a kind Chinese-American doctor in the Sunset District who had overseen Mrs. Choi’s general health for years. He couldn’t release records without a court order, but his face told a story of deep affection for his former patient.
“She was a remarkable woman,” he’d said, his voice soft. “Sharp as a tack, even at 82.”
My search led me to the UCSF Memory and Aging Center, a world-renowned facility that Mrs. Choi had visited regularly for routine cognitive health screenings. It was a long shot, but I remembered her mentioning it once, describing it as “preventative maintenance for the brain.”
I arrived at the center, my stomach in knots, armed with what little I knew about patient privacy laws and a desperate hope. After a tense conversation with an administrative assistant, I managed to explain that I was a concerned party, acting under guidance from the estate attorney, and that specific findings might be crucial to upholding the deceased’s final wishes. It was a legal gray area, but my earnestness, and perhaps my exhausted appearance, seemed to make an impact.
The assistant, a kindly woman named Evelyn, seemed hesitant but understood the gravity of the situation. She couldn’t give me the full file, but she could confirm specific test results for a public record if I had specific dates. I gave her the range Oakes’s petition had cited: the last three years.
After what felt like an eternity, Evelyn returned with a single, redacted printout. “I can confirm, for the dates you specified, that Mrs. Choi underwent regular cognitive assessments here,” she said, her voice low. “Her most recent assessment, conducted just two months before her passing, shows a perfect score.”
My breath caught in my throat. “A perfect score?”
“Yes,” Evelyn confirmed, her finger tapping the document. “A 30 out of 30 on the Mini-Mental State Examination.”
The Mini-Mental State Examination, or MMSE, was a standard screening tool for cognitive function. A perfect 30/30 score meant zero impairment. It meant Mrs. Choi was entirely lucid, entirely capable of making complex decisions, right up until the very end.
I stared at the document, the numerical proof of Mrs. Choi’s brilliant mind. Oakes’s claims of advanced vascular dementia were not just fabrications; they were outright, provable lies. The affidavits from the “distant relative” and the “former cleaner” were utterly baseless, designed to mislead the court.
Suddenly, Oakes’s actions made even less sense. Why would a master restorer, a respected figure, stake his reputation on such an easily disproven lie? It wasn’t just about trying to steal money; it was about destroying Mrs. Choi’s reputation posthumously. It was a level of malice that twisted my gut.
I held the printout tight, the flimsy paper feeling like a shield. I had the proof. I had the truth. Oakes had deliberately submitted fabricated claims to the probate judge, gambling on the fact that I wouldn’t be able to access her confidential medical records. But he had underestimated my determination, and Mrs. Choi’s meticulous care for her own health.
The satisfaction of finding the truth was quickly overshadowed by a chilling question: if Oakes was willing to lie so brazenly and damage Mrs. Choi’s good name, what else was he willing to do to stop me?
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