Chapter 19: The Proxy Page

The bank on Butler Street opened at nine, and at eight fifty-five I was standing outside it with Darby and my lawyer.

My lawyer was a short, brisk woman who had taken my divorce on Thursday for a flat fee and a bouquet.

She had a leather folder under her arm and a pen clipped to her collar.

"The hold is on the shop account only," she said. "The one that pays your suppliers and Thursday's payroll."

"Who asked for it?"

"We'll find out inside."

The branch manager met us at the counter, a young man with a nervous haircut and a printout in his hand.

"Ms. Garrard, I'm very sorry. We received a request Sunday night under a health care proxy with a financial schedule."

"A financial schedule," I said.

"It names Mr. Nigel Whitfield, or his designee, as authorized to act on your accounts if you are, quote, medically unavailable."

"Am I medically unavailable?"

"The designee says you've been in the hospital."

"For one night, a couple of weeks ago."

My lawyer opened her folder and laid a single page on the counter.

"Then you'll want to read this," she said.

It was a revocation of the proxy, notarized on Friday and filed with the county, and it bore the county's stamp.

I had signed it in her office with Carl's coffee at my elbow, and I had signed it twice.

The manager read it, and the line behind us grew.

By then there were six people waiting, and a man in a delivery uniform craned over his shoulder to see.

"I'm afraid the request came in before the revocation reached our compliance office," the manager said.

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