Court Papers in the Locked Drawer of a Community Doctor
“These are the joint accounts,” I said, laying them on the clean leather blotter. I touched my silver wedding ring, spinning it twice around my knuckle.
Karen adjusted her tortoiseshell glasses and looked down at the highlighted lines. “Three hundred and fifty dollars. Every Friday afternoon. It is very regular.”
“Every single one,” I said. “For eight weeks straight. That is two thousand eight hundred dollars.”
“And you had no knowledge of these withdrawals?” she asked, her voice dropping into her professional register.
“None,” I said. “David handles the online bill pay. I only use the debit card for groceries and gas. I never check the balance of the joint savings because we have always kept our household budget so separate.”
Karen picked up a yellow legal pad and clicked her black fountain pen. She did not write anything yet. She just held the pen over the paper, her fingers poised.
“David told me he was helping a patient’s family with some private care costs,” I said. “He was so calm when he said it. But Marcus told me a different story behind the gas station yesterday.”
