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 aggressive pounding on my apartment door started at precisely 3:00 AM. I jolted awake, my heart slamming against my ribs. In the dim light filtering through the blinds, I saw the distorted shadow of a large man on the glass panel of my door.
“Daniel Park! Open up! Process server!” a gruff voice demanded.
My stomach dropped. I glanced at my phone. 3:07 AM. This wasn’t just legal action; it was intimidation.
I pulled on a pair of sweatpants and padded to the door, my bare feet cold on the wooden floor. I peered through the peephole. Two burly men stood outside, their faces unsmiling. They held clipboards.
I unlocked the door, leaving the security chain on. “What is this about?”
The taller man shoved a thick envelope through the gap. “Formal subpoena, Mr. Park. You are required to produce all personal correspondence, including letters, text messages, emails, and photographs exchanged between you and Mrs. Sun-Hee Choi over the last six years.”
My hand closed around the envelope. It was heavy, packed with legal forms.
“Within 48 hours,” the second man added, his voice flat. “Failure to comply will result in contempt of court charges.”
“This is ridiculous!” I exclaimed. “My correspondence with Mrs. Choi is private. And it’s 3:00 AM!”
The first man simply stared at me, his eyes devoid of any expression. “The court dictates the terms, Mr. Park. Not us. Not you.”
He rattled off another line. “Your legal costs are estimated to exceed $42,000 for defense against these escalating filings. Failure to post bond or secure counsel will result in default judgment.”
My jaw clenched. Forty-two thousand dollars. My entire life savings, the one that was currently frozen anyway, wasn’t enough to cover that. They knew that. This wasn’t just about getting information; it was about financially suffocating me.
“Are you serious?” I asked, my voice trembling with suppressed anger. “You’re coming to my home at 3:00 AM for this?”
The second man stepped closer, his voice dropping slightly. “Master Oakes’s instructions were very clear, Mr. Park. ‘Leave no stone unturned, leave no doubt about the severity of this action.’”
He emphasized the word ‘severity’ with a cold, hard stare.
They waited, unmoving, until I had fully grasped the envelope. Then, without another word, they turned and walked away, their heavy footsteps echoing down the hallway.
I closed the door, sliding the chain back into place. The subpoena felt like a physical weight in my hands. Every personal card, every note Mrs. Choi had ever written me, every photograph we’d taken together—they wanted it all. They wanted to scrutinize every interaction, every word, searching for any hint of manipulation or undue influence.
They were trying to prove Mrs. Choi was incompetent, and that I had taken advantage of her.
The relentless legal intimidation was working. My small life savings were being drained, inaccessible. My every move was being watched, restricted by restraining orders. Now, my personal life was being invaded, twisted into something illicit.
I stood there in the dark, the cold seeping into my bones. Master Oakes wasn’t just fighting a legal battle; he was waging psychological warfare. He was trying to break me. But knowing the truth about Mrs. Choi’s perfect cognitive scores, and Master Oakes’s personal payment to the syndicate, gave me a desperate flicker of strength. I had to keep going. I had to find out why.
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