The Attorney Opened A Drawer My Cousin Had Never Seen

Beatrice Mott asked me where I'd found the receipt.

"In a film can," I said.

She looked at the envelope, then asked again.

"Where did you find it?"

"Under a cardboard insert. It wasn't touching the film. I photographed it before I moved it."

She set down her pen.

"Good. Your first answer sounded like one you'd practiced."

At seventy-one, Beatrice was a white woman with a silver bob, square glasses, and hands that stayed flat on the desk while she listened. Her office was near Benefit Street. From her window, I could see wet brick and a patch of dirty snow.

I had taken the bus because the car's brakes could wait another day.

Beatrice checked my ID, compared the receipt to her register, and unlocked a drawer.

"I represented your aunt," she said. "I can bring forward her documents. Your interests and the estate's may differ. If that happens, you'll need separate advice."

"Did she cut me out?"

"Not in anything she signed here."

She placed an original will dated three years earlier on the desk. Beside it, she laid the May codicil.

I recognized Aunt Salma's heavy downstroke in the letter S. But Beatrice didn't ask me to trust that feeling. She showed me the names of two witnesses, her appointment notes, and the signed record of the meeting.

"Both witnesses are available," she said. "And Salma read the changes aloud."

The earlier will left the ordinary residue of the estate to Nadim. It also named him as executor. The codicil changed both the handling and the ownership of the archive.

Beatrice moved one page closer.

"Read this paragraph slowly."

My aunt had placed her film materials, the copyrights she owned, and $164,000 into a trust created under her will. The trust's purpose was to preserve the films and allow safe public access.

She named me sole trustee.

The original negatives could not be sold. Prints and licensed copies could earn money for care. I could receive fair pay for conservation work, up to $36,000 a year, with each payment shown in annual accounts.

"She knew I'd need to work," I said.

"She knew that care is work."

I read the next line twice. The trustee could control loans, storage, copying, and access to the original materials.

Nadim had called me the girl who fixed little tears. My aunt had given that girl the legal duty to decide where every reel went.

"Does this beat his will?" I asked.

"If his later will is valid, it could replace these wishes. Illness alone doesn't prove otherwise. We need the document and the facts."

She took out her calendar.

"Why didn't you call me sooner?"

"I didn't know she'd died until yesterday. Nadim told my assistant she was staying with relatives."

The cold I'd carried in from the street seemed to settle inside my coat.

Beatrice called the probate clerk. She asked for the filed petition and offered the original will and codicil through the proper filing process. Then she called both witnesses from the May meeting.

Neither hesitated.

"Now," she said, "what can leave that room before the court hears this?"

"Everything. He has a key."

She wrote that down.

I gave her my loan records, the copied will, and the photo of the envelope in its can. She made copies and returned my originals in a labeled folder.

"Keep notes of events," she said. "Dates. Words. People present. Don't guess at motives."

"I can do that."

"I expect you already do."

That afternoon, we visited the archive together. I wanted to change the lock. Beatrice said we should seek an order for control and preservation, not start a fight over the door.

Nadim was inside with a man measuring shelf space.

"This is private," my cousin said.

Beatrice introduced herself and handed him written notice that the earlier will and codicil would be presented.

"All materials and records must be kept," she said. "You'll receive the filed papers."

"My aunt signed in November."

"Who was there?"

"People. Two witnesses."

Beatrice waited.

Then she asked, "Who was there?"

The man with the tape measure stopped working.

Nadim said he would speak through counsel. That was the first careful thing I'd ever heard him say.

On the table, beside the missing inventory binder, lay a shipping worksheet. Twelve can numbers ran down its left side. I knew those numbers. They were our most brittle acetate reels.

"What is that?" I asked.

"A preliminary valuation."

But the page beneath it had a price: $92,000.

It also had the words Deposit Received: $23,000, and a buyer line that read only Purchaser By Designee.

Beatrice asked for a copy.

Nadim put his hand over the page just as his phone began to ring.