Chapter 12 - The Grandfather’s Secret
Walter Mitchell had been dead seven years.
That made accusing him easy.
It also made proving anything difficult.
Jordan placed three family albums across the dining table while his father stood by the fireplace.
“You told me Grandpa hated St. Gabriel.”
“He did.”
“Then why was he meeting their lawyers?”
Mr. Mitchell stared at the attendance log.
“I don’t know.”
Mrs. Mitchell folded her arms.
“You do know he got involved.”
“I know he tried to.”
“When?”
“After the settlement.”
Jordan looked at his father.
“Not before?”
“No.”
Nia had emailed a scanned copy of Walter’s signature from an unrelated property deed.
It matched the meeting log.
Unlike Marcus’s forged signature, Walter’s appeared genuine.
Maya arrived with Claire shortly after noon.
She placed Mrs. Mitchell’s first birthday letter carefully beside her bag.
Mrs. Mitchell noticed but said nothing.
Jordan asked, “Did Renee ever mention Walter?”
Maya shook her head.
Claire did too.
Mr. Mitchell walked toward an old cabinet.
“My father kept records.”
Jordan almost groaned.
“Does everyone in this family secretly keep records?”
“Apparently.”
Mr. Mitchell removed a metal cashbox.
Inside were tax papers, military records, property deeds and a notebook.
Walter had written in block capitals.
Jordan flipped through.
March 2009 contained one line:
MARCUS NOT THINKING CLEARLY. HOSPITAL PEOPLE HIDING SOMETHING.
The next week:
CALLED MERCER. REFUSED ANSWERS.
Then:
MET THEM MYSELF. THEY THINK MONEY ENDS THIS.
Mr. Mitchell sat down hard.
“I never saw this.”
Maya leaned over Jordan’s shoulder.
Another entry appeared.
April 9:
TOLD THEM I WOULD SUPPORT CLOSURE ONLY IF CHILD CONFIRMED DEAD. THEY WOULD NOT CONFIRM.
Jordan looked at the attendance note.
“Supports closure.”
Mrs. Mitchell understood first.
“They changed the meaning.”
Nia, connected by speakerphone, asked Jordan to read everything exactly.
He continued.
April 10:
MARCUS MUST NOT SIGN ANYTHING ELSE.
Mr. Mitchell covered his mouth.
“I wish he had told me that.”
Jordan looked at him.
“Maybe he did.”
The next entry answered.
April 12:
MARCUS REFUSES TO DISCUSS. THINKS THEY WILL TAKE BOY IF HE FIGHTS.
Maya looked toward Mr. Mitchell.
“You were terrified.”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t make what you did right.”
“No.”
She nodded.
“But it changes it.”
That was the closest thing to mercy he had received.
Jordan continued flipping pages.
June 2009:
NO DEATH RECORD FOUND.
September:
PRIVATE ATTORNEY SAYS PLACEMENT CASE SEALED.
Then December:
IF I PUSH, MARCUS MAY LOSE FAMILY. WAIT.
Jordan slammed the notebook closed.
“He waited too.”
Mrs. Mitchell whispered, “Everyone waited.”
Maya stood.
“And I grew up.”
No one argued.
The notebook contained nothing until February 2010.
Then one entry:
THEY PAID HIM.
After that:
I FAILED BOTH CHILDREN.
Jordan stared at his grandfather’s handwriting.
The sentence hurt more than he expected.
His childhood memories of Walter involved fishing trips, loud laughter and peppermint candies hidden in coat pockets.
Now another version existed.
A man who had known something was wrong and still surrendered to fear.
Mrs. Mitchell touched Jordan’s shoulder.
“Your grandfather loved you.”
Jordan shook her hand off.
“I’m tired of that sentence being used like a legal defense.”
She stepped back.
“I’m sorry.”
Maya watched him.
He walked into the garden.
She followed.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Good. I was worried I was the only one.”
He smiled without humor.
They sat on a wooden bench beneath a maple tree.
Jordan looked at her.
“Do you hate us?”
“Which us?”
“My family.”
“You mean our family?”
The wording startled them both.
Maya looked away.
“I hate what people did.”
“Same.”
“I hate that your father took money.”
“Same.”
“I hate that your mother stopped asking.”
Jordan nodded.
“I hate Harris.”
Maya considered it.
“I don’t know if I hate him.”
“That’s generous.”
“No. I think hatred would make him simpler.”
Jordan looked at her.
She continued.
“He was cowardly. He helped people hurt us. But he also kept evidence. He visited my mother. He cried.”
“So?”
“So I don’t know what box to put him in.”
Jordan smiled faintly.
“You hate boxes.”
“I do.”
His phone rang.
Nia.
He answered.
“I found Deborah Pike,” she said.
“The social worker?”
“Yes. Her attorney called me.”
Jordan put the phone on speaker.
“What did she say?”
Nia paused.
“She wants immunity before she speaks.”
Maya leaned toward the phone.
“Immunity from what?”
“Her lawyer didn’t say.”
Jordan felt his stomach tighten.
Nia continued.
“But he gave me one sentence to prove she has relevant information.”
“What sentence?”
“On March 19, 2009, Elaine Mercer ordered Deborah Pike to create a false abandonment assessment.”
Mrs. Mitchell appeared in the doorway behind them.
She had heard.
Nia continued.
“And Deborah says Elliot Harris wasn’t the doctor Mercer was protecting.”
Jordan frowned.
“Who was?”
There was a pause.
“The hospital’s chief pediatric officer.”
“Why?”
“Because he signed Maya’s discharge without verifying the infant identity.”
Maya whispered, “Who was he?”
Nia answered.
“Dr. Charles Mercer.”
Jordan froze.
“Mercer?”
“Yes.”
Elaine Mercer’s husband.
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