Chapter 10 - SYLVIA ASKED TO SEE ME
Sylvia’s letter came through her attorney.
She had entered a plea negotiation and wanted a supervised meeting before sentencing.
Helen advised against it.
Kim said it might produce useful information.
Neither reason mattered as much as the question I asked myself:
Did I want to see my daughter?
The honest answer was yes.
That did not mean I trusted her.
We met in a secure conference room at the county detention center.
Sylvia wore a gray uniform. Without makeup, jewelry, or Jason beside her, she looked younger and older at once.
“Mom.”
I did not answer the name immediately.
She gripped the edge of the table.
“I know you read my letter.”
“I read it.”
“I meant every word.”
“Meaning words has never been your main problem.”
Her face tightened.
“I deserve that.”
“What do you want?”
She looked toward the camera in the corner.
Then she spoke carefully.
“Jason kept records.”
“What kind?”
“Payments. Clients. Families. Judges he thought were helpful. Doctors he thought could be influenced.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
I leaned back.
“Then you have offered nothing.”
“I know how he labeled them.”
That changed the room.
Jason rarely used ordinary names for illegal plans. He disguised them as luxury properties he hoped to buy.
Guardianship cases were called “cottages.”
Medication plans were “renovations.”
Successful transfers were “closings.”
“What did he call Voss?” I asked.
Sylvia swallowed.
“The architect.”
“Where did Jason keep the files?”
“He used a cloud account, but not under his own email.”
“Whose?”
She looked at me.
“Dad’s.”
My late husband’s name entered the room like a draft beneath a door.
Thomas had been dead for six years.
Jason had created an account using his identity because he believed no one would monitor a dead man’s digital life.
“You knew?”
“Not until after the restaurant.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No. I expect you to verify it.”
That answer sounded different from the daughter who once begged me to call attempted poisoning a misunderstanding.
“What do you want in return?”
Her eyes filled.
“I want you to tell the prosecutor I helped.”
“That is not the same as taking responsibility.”
“I am trying.”
“Trying after you were caught is not repentance. It is opportunity.”
She lowered her head.
“I know.”
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then she said, “There’s something else.”
Jason had once brought Sylvia to a private dinner with Voss and three families seeking guardianships. At the dinner, Voss explained that older adults did not need to appear permanently impaired.
They only needed one documented crisis.
“A single bad morning,” Sylvia whispered, “could take away the rest of someone’s life.”
I thought of my wine glass.
They had not intended merely to sedate me.
They had intended to manufacture that morning.
Before leaving, I told Sylvia the truth.
“I will report exactly what you provide. I will not exaggerate your help, and I will not erase your participation.”
She nodded.
“Will you ever forgive me?”
“I do not know.”
Her face crumpled.
I stood.
May you like
“But whether I forgive you is not the same as whether you can become someone better.”
For the first time, she did not ask me to make that transformation easier.
