Chapter 2 - The Man Who Held My Proxy
My first attorney arrived carrying no briefcase, just a legal pad and a paper cup of terrible hospital coffee.
Her name was Miriam Cole.
She had gray hair, a calm voice, and the expression of someone who did not scare easily.
“General Reed says you need representation,” she told me.
“I need someone who can stop an illegal vote.”
“That's not always the same thing.”
She listened while I described the trust, the signatures, the ceremony, and the doctor who hadn't examined me in almost twenty years.
When I finished, she did not offer sympathy.
She asked for dates.
The date of my mother's death.
The date I turned thirty-five.
The date of the alleged consent.
I had turned thirty-five eleven days earlier.
Miriam drew a line beneath that number.
“Then this isn't merely a future interest,” she said.
“If the documents are what you say, the trustee may already be violating an obligation to transfer voting authority.”
“Who's the trustee?”
“Linda's brother, apparently.”
“Victor Hale.”
At the mention of his name, something old and unpleasant opened in my stomach.
Victor had been at my mother's funeral.
He'd told fourteen-year-old me that adults would take care of complicated matters.
At the time, I had believed adults were supposed to.
Miriam requested an emergency court order and preservation notices for the company's corporate secretary, transfer agent, outside auditors, and digital-records provider.
She was precise about what could be done immediately and what would require a judge.
“We can't magically erase their access,” she explained.
“But we can force them to answer under penalty if they destroy records after notice.”
At 4:03, an email landed in her inbox.
The company's general counsel was willing to postpone the meeting if I signed a temporary delegation of my votes to my father.
I almost laughed.
They were offering not to rob me this morning if I agreed to hand them the keys forever.
“Tell them no.”
Miriam raised one finger.
“Tell them something better.”
She dictated a refusal that asserted my capacity, disputed the validity of every proxy executed without my knowledge, and demanded an independent examination of trust records.
The last line was hers.
“Any attempt to characterize a documented assault against Ms. Mercer as evidence of her incapacity will be presented to the appropriate court.”
I signed my full name on a digital tablet, awkwardly using my right hand.
Leah Sarah Mercer.
At 5:11 a.m., Victor called me directly.
His voice had not changed in twenty years.
“You're making this unnecessarily ugly.”
“I didn't swing a chair, Victor.”
“Linda was emotional.”
“Two bones disagreed with her.”
He ignored that.
“Your mother wanted stability.”
“Then why did she leave me voting rights?”
Silence.
I heard a door click shut on his end.
“Your mother didn't understand what she'd written,” he said at last.
That was the first time I had ever heard anyone accuse Sarah Mercer of not understanding a contract.
She had been a securities attorney before she married my father.
She had built the company beside him while he learned how to shake hands at fundraisers.
“You're going to have to say that under oath,” I replied.
Victor ended the call.
Miriam immediately asked me to write down every word.
Then a new email came from the corporate secretary.
Victor had submitted an original proxy as proof of authority.
Its notarization date was the day after my mother's funeral.
On that date, I had been fourteen.
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And I had been in a hospital three counties away after collapsing during the burial service.
