Extreme Greed has many faces and one of them used to be someone I knew.


HEAT


120 degrees in the Las Vegas summer is nothing compared to the heat of a ninety-two page document from my sister’s evil attorney that not only reiterates every accusation she’s made about me in the last five years, but contains brand new attacks on my integrity and ethics. The Probate Court Judge holds a copy.

And although every word she has written is lies, I can feel the molten lava reaching out to me from where it is smoldering on his desk. If I picked it up would it melt my fingers as well as my resolve?

I sit in court in the last row, my back against the wall, the door one seat away, hoping that Wyatt Earp’s defensive strategy will work for me. I am momentarily safe from a knife in the back but not from the toxic gas that flows out of my sister’s mouth as she turns and smirks at me.

The judge picks up those ninety-two pages and throws them down onto his desk in disgust. I can see by his eyes that he expects there to be many more thick documents, months worth, years worth. It’s an overwhelming prospect to me.

My sister’s attorney stands between me and the door and directs her underling to take the seat three to the left of me. I pull my knees back and snarl at her touch, but my kneecaps are already melting down my calves along with my belief in justice. The spy is taking notes for her boss, often glancing at my face. Is she logging the number of my tears or the deepening crease in my forehead?

My attorney sits next to me with a whispered offer from the enemy. I am so tired I can barely hold my pen to write down the numbers. I rub my aching temples each time my attorney goes out into the hall to fight for my rights.

But every time I look up at the judge’s bench, all I can see is the crystallizing future. The abysmal stack of documents that will be multiplying like cancer cells before my eyes every time I am forced to come here.

I think about how hard my parents worked to amass their modest fortune and how carefully they tried to insure its equal distribution between my sister and my self with Trusts and documents. And I think about how many years I have fought to honor their wishes. But this unending battle is taking its toll on me and the cost is mounting daily.

Is my sanity worth more or less than the two hundred thousand dollars inequity that my sister is demanding?

Justice lies dead at my feet. So I reluctantly agree to terms that I know are very wrong but will ensure that I will never have to sit with my back against this wall again.

On the way to my car, I see my sister and her entourage doing a victory dance in the parking lot. It’s a sickening sight. But I pity her all the same, because I know there was no real victory for anyone in that courtroom. She may have gotten the money, but both of us have lost a sister.

I get in my car and drive home to mourn her death.