Truth or Consequences

Chapter 7: An Upside Down World

All truth passes through three stages. First, it is ridiculed. Second, it is violently opposed. Third, it is accepted as being self-evident. -Arthur Schopenhauer

Stephen and I approach a building in the heart of a small strip mall. The structure is stucco and alabaster white with sea-green trim.

Shielding my eyes from the bright mid-morning sun, I tilt my head back. Larry Crawford, Attorney at Law, is in dark lettering above the second-story awning.

Grabbing the glass door, he pulls it open without uttering a single word. The inside of the building is large and outdated.

The floor appears to have the same original tile laid by the builder, somewhere around the late fifties. The marble staircase, now replaced by elevators, appears lonely and seems to cry out, begging for repairs.

We step into the last elevator. Silence fills the chamber.

Stephen pushes the button for the second floor.

When the bell rings, the door opens to a modern workplace with all the trimmings and comforts of a large city. Side by side, I enter through a pair of double glass doors with him by my side.

In the middle of the room stands a marble structure occupied by two women. The desk seems too sleek and streamline for comfort. Slowly, we ascend to the reception area, and one of the two ladies looks up.

Her salt and pepper hair pulled back tighter than a string on a bow makes my scalp ache. A long braid slides over her shoulder. She squints, then pushes on a pair of glasses up her nose that magnifies her green eyes.

"Hello. Can I help you?" Her green eyes contain flecks of gold and brown.

Stephen flashes his pearly whites. "I wonder if you ladies would be good enough to let Mr. Crawford know we've arrived."

"Yes, of course," says the second woman, a brunette with bright red lipstick. "And who should I say is here?"

"Just let him know Stephen Briggs from Texas has arrived."

"Stephen Briggs." A deep, southern voice sounds behind us.

I spin around on the tips of my toes.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, son. Why, where are my manners? Please, allow me to introduce myself? I'm Larry Crawford."

"Sorry, we're late." Stephen shakes hands with the older man.

"Did you have a hard time finding us?"

"No, not at all, your office was easy to locate. We just ran into some troubles of a sort."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Mr. Crawford redirects his gaze and unbuttons his jacket, retrieving a phone from its inside pocket. He glances at the screen briefly, then pockets the device, never breaking eye contact with Stephen.

"You must be Danielle Herring." Mr. Crawford turns his focus to me.

"I uhm . . ." The words stick in the back of my throat. "Yes, I am."

"Mr. Crawford, Larry, if you don't mind. My client and I've traveled from Texas at your request. We want to review the closed documents in your possession and get on with the deposition."

"By all means, follow me."

Stephen places a hand on the small of my back. My body stiffens, and I glare over my shoulder.

He moves his hand, and I follow Mr. Crawford down the long snaking hallway. It makes me wonder if this is how fictional teen detective Nancy Drew felt walking into the unknown when solving mysteries.

The only difference between her and me is that Mr. Crawford isn't my father; he's the distinguished attorney for the other side, and Stephen is, well, Stephen. Plus, I don't feel confident, outspoken, or the least bit authoritative. My palms are clammy, and my legs feel like wet, overcooked noodles.

The inside of Mr. Crawford's office is relatively large, with one wall of books and another contains evenly spaced shelves housing decorations and books. A small coffee pot - that belongs in the pages of a steam-punk magazine - adorns the shelves.

I bet it makes only one cup of coffee at a time.

Mr. Crawford guides me to an oval table surrounded by black leather chairs. Stephen drops his briefcase on one of the high-backed chairs and sits, motioning for me to do the same. Once I take a seat, Mr. Crawford plants himself directly across the table; his eyes rest upon me.

"Would either of you like something to drink?" Mr. Crawford smooths the tail of his tie.

"No, thank you, I just finished breakfast." I fidget with a loose thread on the hem of my dress.

Stephen opens his case. "I'll take a cup of black coffee with sugar - no cream." He pulls a couple of files out, placing them on top of the table.

Wait. Did he just ask for black coffee but with sugar and no cream? Who does that? I thought the point of black coffee is that it had nothing in it. Perplexed, I wonder if he's playing a strategy game laymen know nothing about.

Mr. Crawford wheels his chair closer and reaches forward, extending his arm out over the table. He pushes in the intercom button on the speaker console embedded in polished wood. A woman's voice erupts from the device.

"How may I assist you?"

"Lydia, dear, please, bring me a cup of coffee for Mr. Briggs and two bottles of water," Crawford says.

"Cream and sugar, Sir?" Lydia's voice squawks.

"No cream, only sugar," replies Mr. Crawford.

"One cup of coffee with sugar and two bottles of water. Will there be anything else, Mr. Crawford?"

"Yes, please, let Sharon know Mr. Briggs and his party are here." Mr. Crawford settles back into his chair. "And find out when Dr. Del Bosque will arrive."

Placing my elbows on the table, I rest my chin on top of my laced fingers.

Okay, so, this guy's a doctor.

"Right away, Sir," Lydia replies. "Shall I forward Dr. Del Bosque to your phone if I should reach him?"

"No, just find out what time he'll arrive. That will be all."

"Thank you, Sir," she says. Then the console grows silent.

Mr. Crawford pauses a few seconds. He pushes away from the table and rises. In only a few strides, he makes his way over to the desk at the opposite end of the room. Sliding open a squeaky drawer, he takes out several folders.

"Let me be frank, Mr. Briggs. My client, Dr. Del Bosque, is a well-respected man of influence and good intent." Mr. Crawford takes a seat and tosses a file across the table. It lands a few inches from Stephen's hands with a thud.

Stephen opens the folder. "And this is . . ."

"A court-appointed restraining order that keeps Miss Herring from the contents of Mr. John James Herrington's estate, as well as other documents, until your side proves evidence of heirship."

"He's kidding, right? They can't do that, can they?" I turn to Stephen, waiting for a response.

He reviews the documents. "I see. However, you can't restrain my client from what's rightfully hers. There's not a court anywhere on earth that will allow that, Larry."

"Frankly, son, we can and will until there's concrete proof Miss Herring is, in fact, a Herrington and is Jennifer Ann Herrington's illegitimate child. The death certificate I have doesn't give rise to that fanciful myth."

"This is ludicrous," Stephen exclaims. "You know it. And I know it."

I take a deep breath to clear my head. My temples are throbbing again. "May I see the information about Jennifer Ann's death, Mr. Crawford?"

"Certainly." He produces two sets of files, one for Stephen and the other for me. "Those are yours to keep."

I review the documents and come across one death certificate. It is for Jennifer Ann and her unborn child.

"This has turned my entire world upside down. Yesterday, I found out my birth name was Herrington instead of Herring. I am the daughter of Jennifer Ann Herring, H-Herrington, who I thought died of leukemia in a hospital in Houston, Texas when I was an infant. I don't know why my grandmother lied. I can't explain it, and I don't understand."

My hands tremble, rustling the papers. Tears fill my eyes. I blink quickly to keep them at bay.

Mr. Crawford hands me a tissue box. I blot the corners of my eyes.

"I'm sorry. Do you mind if I go to the ladies' room?"

"No, please, by all means." Mr. Crawford stands. "One of the ladies at the reception desk, down the hall and to the left, can show you the way."

Excusing myself, I walk out of the office. The hallway is long and empty. Thoughts swim around in my head. What exactly did he mean when he said there was a court-appointed order?

Can they keep me off the property?

My stomach somersaults then tightens. The vile taste of partially digested yogurt and Cheerios hits the back of my throat. I stop at the end of the hallway, leaning against the wall for support, rubbing my temples. My head is still pounding. Taking in a deep breath, I step forward, but I'm knocked sideways and almost fall.

"s**t. Doesn't anyone in this place watch where they're going?" A woman in her early fifties bounces off the opposite wall.

She's shorter than my five-foot, two-and-a-half-inch frame and wearing red-colored granny glasses that sit on the tip of her pointed nose. The files in her arms cascade to the floor, fanning out around us. I help her pick up the documents.

Sniffling, I brush hair out of my face. "I'm truly sorry. I didn't see you."

"The apologies are all mine. It wouldn't have happened if I'd not come around the corner like a bat out of hell. I'm Sharon Rankin. Is there something I can help you with?"

"You're the paralegal?"

"The one and only, well, at least, in this office."

"I was looking for the bathroom."

"Here, dear, let me show you where it is. It's the least I can do after plowing over you."

After placing the last file on the pile she's holding, I follow her down the hallway. We enter the reception area, pass through a glass door, and stop in front of a water fountain.

"The light is just inside." She points at the bathroom.

"Thank you."

"If there's anything else I can help you with, don't hesitate to ask. I'm in the first door to the left after the hallway ends."