Chapter 3 - The Audit of Thirty Years
While Martha set the chicken casserole on my new kitchen counter, Dave pulled a legal tablet and a laptop from his briefcase.
We sat down at my mother’s oak table with three mugs of black coffee.
“Tatum,” Dave began, opening his laptop. “Now that the closing funds of three hundred and ninety-five thousand dollars are secured in your primary trust account, we need to address the outstanding joint financial ties between you and Cedric.”
I rested my hands on the warm porcelain mug. “What ties?”
“Three years ago,” Dave explained, turning the screen toward me, “you signed as a co-borrower on a forty-thousand-dollar personal loan for Cedric’s short-lived landscaping business.”
My jaw set firmly. “I remember. He told me the equipment was insurance-backed.”
“It wasn't,” Dave said flatly. “He stopped making payments eight months ago. The bank has been quietly pulling the two-hundred-and-eighty-dollar monthly installment directly from your secondary savings account under the automated overdraft agreement you signed.”
I closed my eyes for a brief second.
Two hundred and eighty dollars a month. For eight months. While he was living in my guest room, complaining that I didn't buy the expensive brand of organic coffee he preferred.
“Can I sever the co-sign agreement?” I asked, opening my eyes.
“With the cash from the house sale,” Dave replied, “you can pay off the remaining balance of nineteen thousand dollars today. But more importantly, we can file a formal financial separation notice with the credit bureaus. Once that is filed, Cedric will no longer have access to any secondary line of credit attached to your social security number.”
“Do it immediately,” I said without a single second of hesitation.
Martha leaned across the table, taking my hand in hers. “Tatum... have you checked your phone?”
I pulled the device from my purse and set it on the oak table.
The red notification badge on the screen showed 28 Missed Calls and 14 Unread Voicemails.
I hit speakerphone and selected the first voicemail from 11:45 a.m.
Cedric’s voice blasted through the quiet room, echoing off the bare, clean walls:
“Mom! Where the hell are you?! We’re sitting in the parking lot of the Quality Inn with six suitcases and the kids are crying because they’re hungry! My card got declined at the front desk! What did you do to my account?! Call me back right now!”
The message beeped and ended.
Dave looked at me. Martha looked at me.
I pressed delete.
I selected the sixth voicemail, recorded at 1:15 p.m.
Jessica’s voice came through, shrill, terrified, and breathless:
“Tatum, please! This has gone way too far! Cedric is screaming at the motel manager and the police were called to Elmwood Court because Cedric tried to use his old key to get back inside! They threatened to arrest him for trespassing! Tatum, we don't have anywhere to go! We’re sorry about the barbecue! We’re so, so sorry! Just tell us where your new apartment is!”
I pressed delete.
May you like
Then I looked at Dave.
“Call the bank,” I said softly. “Pay off the loan. Lock the credit lines. And then call my attorney, Mr. Henderson. I want every single reference to Cedric removed from my estate planning by four o'clock today.”
