The boardroom smelled of new carpet and old money. All five trustees were there, Marguerite at the center, the lawyer at the end, and a court reporter I had not expected, taking down every word.
Blair wore black. No earrings.
I had brought the binder and the letter and the scholarship director's budget memo, and I laid them on the table like a hand of cards. "The trust charter gives the donor the right to name a successor," I said. "She named me. The second instrument is valid. The medical record proves nothing except that she was tired on a Tuesday afternoon, which is true of everyone in this room."
The lawyer shuffled. Marguerite folded her hands. One of the other trustees, a man named Porter with a fishing tie and a bored expression, asked whether I intended to keep the current grant
