He was protecting himself.
Judge Morland looked toward my parents.
“When did your daughter tell you she believed Ms. Hamilton was impersonating an attorney?”
My mother swallowed.
“About two months ago.”
“And did she tell you she had contacted the firm?”
“No.”
“Did she tell you she had found the commencement record?”
“No.”
My father stared at Brenda.
“You said the firm wouldn’t verify her.”
Brenda looked at him.
“I said they gave me evasive answers.”
“No,” Mr. Avery said. “They did not.”
He opened a final document.
“The call was recorded pursuant to the firm’s standard intake policy.”
Brenda went completely still.
My stomach tightened.
I hadn’t known that.
Mr. Avery pressed a button.
A woman’s voice filled the hearing room.
“Mercer, Vale & Bishop.”
Then Brenda.
Bright.
Polite.
Controlled.
“I’m trying to confirm whether my sister actually works there. Her name is Claire Hamilton.”
My name.
For the first time in years, hearing it in Brenda’s voice made me feel sixteen.
The receptionist answered.
“Yes. Ms. Hamilton is one of our senior trial attorneys.”
A pause.
Brenda’s recorded voice changed.
“Senior?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And she’s licensed?”
Another pause.
“Yes.”
Then Brenda laughed.
The same laugh.
Light.
Dismissive.
The one from that dinner in Connecticut.
“That’s hard to believe.”
Nobody in the hearing room moved.
The recording continued.
Brenda asked for my bar number.
The receptionist directed her to the public registry.
Brenda asked whether I’d actually tried cases.
She was directed to my professional biography.
Then came the sentence that destroyed everything.
“So if I filed a complaint saying she wasn’t really licensed, what would happen?”
The receptionist sounded confused.
“Ma’am?”
“I mean hypothetically.”
Mr. Avery stopped the recording.
My sister looked like someone had drained the blood from her body.
Judge Morland stared at her.
“You asked that before filing.”
Brenda’s eyes filled.
“I was angry.”
The words came out almost inaudibly.
My mother recoiled.
“What?”
Brenda pressed both hands against the table.
“I was angry.”
“At what?” I asked.
She looked at me.
And there it was.
Fifteen years of comparison.
Except suddenly the direction had reversed.
“You weren’t supposed to be this.”
I didn’t understand.
“This what?”
“Successful.”
My mother whispered her name.
“Brenda.”
But she couldn’t stop now.
“You were supposed to have the normal life.”
Her voice shook.
“The practical life. I was the one who went to Yale. I was the one everyone expected things from.”
I stared at her.
“And?”
“And then my marriage fell apart.”
Her eyes flooded.
“My career stalled. Mom and Dad still talk about Yale because it’s the last impressive thing I did.”
My father flinched.
Brenda laughed bitterly.
“And then somebody at a charity dinner mentioned Fitzgerald.”
I stopped breathing.
“She said Claire Hamilton was brilliant.”
Brenda looked at me.
“I thought it had to be another Claire Hamilton.”
“So you checked.”
“Yes.”
“And found me.”
“Yes.”
“And then filed a fraud complaint.”
Her face crumpled.
“I wanted something about it not to be true.”
The honesty was monstrous.
And somehow pitiful.
Judge Morland let the silence sit.
Then my mother reached for Brenda.
My sister jerked away.
“Don’t.”
My mother’s hand froze.
Brenda looked at her.
“You did this.”
My mother stared.
“You spent my whole life telling me I was special because she wasn’t.”
My chest tightened.
“Brenda—”
“No.”
She turned toward me.
“Every time you did something good, they explained why it didn’t count.”
My father’s face hardened.
“That is not true.”
Brenda laughed.
“You called community college proof she lacked ambition.”
“You agreed.”
“I was sixteen!”
“You were older than she was.”
“And you were our father.”
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