Chapter 3 - THE POLICE PHOTOGRAPHOfficer Jenna Morales met me at the emergency department.
Not to arrest Linda.
Not to tell me a dramatic legal conclusion.
To document.
She photographed the redness on Evan’s cheek.
Collected witness names.
Asked about the inhaler.
Asked whether Linda knew he had asthma.
“Yes.”
“Did she know the inhaler was prescribed?”
“Yes.”
“Did she know he used it for acute symptoms?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“She used to take him to appointments.”
I stopped.
Used to.
Morales noticed.
“When?”
“Two years ago.”
“Why?”
I looked toward Evan.
He was watching television with headphones.
Then I told her about the worst year of my adult life.
My car accident.
The surgeries.
Pain medication.
Rehabilitation.
And the seventy-eight days during which Linda had legally taken my place in almost every practical part of Evan’s life.
Officer Morales listened.
Then asked:
“Was your mother ever Evan’s court-appointed guardian?”
“Yes.”
There it was.
The first connection.
“Is she now?”
“No.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“How was the guardianship terminated?”
“Court order.”
“Do you have a copy?”
“At home.”
“Could there be another order?”
“No.”
I stopped again.
How could I know?
I had not looked at the family court file in almost two years.
Morales wrote something.
Then:
“The document found at the house may be old, current, incomplete, or something else. We’ll verify it.”
It frustrated me.
I wanted her to say:
Fake.
Expired.
Fraud.
My mother lied.
Instead she said:
May you like
“We verify.”
Good police work is emotionally unsatisfying.
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