Chapter 7 - Three Copies
Three copies.
The phrase stayed in the kitchen after the tape stopped.
Deputy Harris was the first to move.
He pressed the stop button, then photographed the recorder and cassette.
“Do you know what he meant?”
“No.”
That answer bothered me more than it should have.
Grandpa believed in backups.
Maybe that was where I learned it.
One copy in a workshop cavity.
Two others somewhere else.
If Dad knew about the tape, the fire suddenly made more sense.
If Dad did not know, then he might still be searching.
Harris bagged the cassette.
“You’ll want a court order before relying on this. Chain of custody, authentication, all that.”
“I understand.”
The marshal looked toward the burned workshop.
“Electrical cause is unlikely.”
“How unlikely?”
“Enough that I’m calling it suspicious pending lab results.”
My phone rang again.
Leonard Price.
I almost let it go to voicemail.
Then I answered on speaker.
“Ms. Carter, this is Leonard Price.”
“I know.”
“I represent your parents in the civil matter.”
“I know that too.”
A pause.
“I’m calling because Mr. Carter has not returned my messages since last night.”
“Why were you driving to the farmhouse yesterday?”
Silence.
Harris looked at me.
So did the marshal.
Price’s voice tightened.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“My mother said you were going there with him.”
“That is inaccurate.”
“Then you won’t mind saying that under oath.”
He exhaled.
“Ms. Carter, I strongly recommend you retain counsel.”
“That’s the first useful thing you’ve said.”
I ended the call.
Harris let out a breath through his nose.
“You enjoy that?”
“No.”
“Looked like it.”
“I enjoy clarity.”
By eight-thirty, I was back at the courthouse with soot still beneath one thumbnail.
I had considered changing out of uniform.
I didn’t.
The uniform was not a costume.
My parents could keep thinking it was if they wanted.
Judge Simmons entered at nine.
Dad’s chair was empty.
Mom sat beside Price.
Her face went white when she saw me.
The judge noticed the empty seat immediately.
“Where is Mr. Carter?”
Price stood.
“I have been unable to reach him, Your Honor.”
Judge Simmons’s expression hardened.
“Is he aware of today’s hearing?”
“Yes.”
“Then we proceed.”
I filed the tax records.
Twelve years of receipts.
Each payment traced to my account.
Some had been made automatically while I was deployed.
Others I had paid manually from field hospitals, bases, and temporary housing.
Judge Simmons reviewed the records in silence.
Then he looked at Mom.
“Mrs. Carter, your sworn affidavit says you and your husband personally paid all property taxes after 2014.”
Mom’s lips parted.
Price leaned toward her.
Too late.
“I was told that was true,” she said.
“By whom?”
“My husband.”
“Did you verify it before signing under oath?”
“No.”
Judge Simmons removed his glasses.
“Mrs. Carter, do you understand what an affidavit is?”
“Yes.”
“I need more than yes. Do you understand that by signing it, you represented these statements as true to this court?”
Her eyes dropped.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Price stood.
“We would request leave to amend—”
“You may request whatever you like after I finish asking questions.”
Price sat.
I saw something in Mom’s face then.
Not remorse exactly.
Recognition.
For years, Dad’s certainty had functioned like a roof over her head.
Now she was discovering it did not cover courtrooms.
Judge Simmons turned to me.
“Commander Carter, you filed an incident report from last night?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
I described the workshop fire, the recovery of the document tube, and the existence of a recording without attempting to play it.
Price objected immediately.
“Hearsay, authentication, relevance—”
“I am not admitting the recording into evidence today,” the judge said. “I am documenting that potentially relevant materials exist.”
He looked at the clerk.
“Preservation order will be expanded to include the recovered tape, the green lockbox if located, and all Meridian Development communications related to the Carter parcel.”
Price stood again.
“Your Honor, Meridian is not a party.”
“Then Meridian can object through counsel.”
The clerk handed the judge another page.
He read it.
Then his eyes narrowed.
“What is this?”
The clerk spoke quietly.
“A filing received electronically at six twelve this morning.”
Judge Simmons looked toward Mom.
“Mrs. Carter, did you file a motion for emergency guardianship over your daughter?”
My hearing narrowed.
Mom stared at Price.
Price looked as though he wanted the floor to open.
“No,” Mom whispered.
The judge lifted the document.
“Someone did.”
He turned it around.
The signature at the bottom read:
ROBERT CARTER.
My father was asking a Virginia court to declare me incapable of managing my own property.
The grounds were listed in three cold phrases.
Combat-related instability.
Impaired mobility.
Questionable judgment.
I felt heat rise beneath my collar.
Not fear.
Not shame.
Recognition.
This was Dad’s oldest strategy.
If he could not own the decision, he would disqualify the person making it.
Judge Simmons read the filing again.
Then looked at me.
“Commander Carter, are you aware of any medical order or competency finding that would support this petition?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Any current guardianship?”
“No.”
“Any adjudication of incapacity?”
“No.”
Judge Simmons turned to Price.
“Did your office prepare this?”
Price’s face drained.
“No, Your Honor.”
The judge’s voice became very quiet.
“Then Mr. Carter appears to be filing documents on his own while failing to appear in the case he initiated.”
A deputy entered through the side door and handed the bailiff a note.
The bailiff brought it to the bench.
Judge Simmons read it.
His eyes moved to me.
“Commander Carter,” he said, “the sheriff’s office has located your father.”
I waited.
“He was found at a storage facility in Chesapeake.”
My mother made a small sound.
Judge Simmons continued.
“In a unit rented under Graham Vale’s company name.”
May you like
He looked down at the note once more.
“And according to the deputy, the green lockbox was with him.”
