“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 one final document.
“The call was recorded pursuant to the firm’s standard intake policy.”
Brenda froze.
My stomach tightened.
I hadn’t known that either.
Mr. Avery pressed a button.
A woman’s voice filled the room.
“Mercer, Vale & Bishop.”
Then Brenda’s.
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 Brenda say it made me feel sixteen again.
The receptionist replied.
“Yes. Ms. Hamilton is one of our senior trial attorneys.”
A pause.
Brenda’s recorded voice shifted.
“Senior?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And she’s licensed?”
Another pause.
“Yes.”
Then Brenda laughed.
That same laugh.
Light.
Dismissive.
The laugh from the Connecticut dinner.
“That’s hard to believe.”
No one moved.
The recording continued.
Brenda asked for my bar number.
The receptionist directed her to the public registry.
She asked whether I had actually handled trials.
The receptionist directed her to my professional biography.
Then came the sentence that destroyed her explanation.
“So if I filed a complaint saying she wasn’t really licensed, what would happen?”
The receptionist sounded confused.
