Chapter 19 - The Money Comes Back
The final civil settlement took almost three years.
Slow.
Boring.
Law.
Exactly how real recovery works.
My trust claims:
Bank settlement.
WRS receiver distribution.
Amanda asset contribution.
Austin forfeiture-related restitution.
Total recovered to me after legal fees and taxes:
Just under $3.4 million.
Not the fortune it might have become under perfect investing.
Not every dollar.
Enough.
Laura asked:
“How does it feel?”
“Like accounting.”
She laughed.
“That is the most Monica answer possible.”
I meant it.
Debit.
Credit.
Something removed.
Something restored.
No emotional magic.
I paid off my condo mortgage.
Set aside a long-term medical reserve because my knee would need future care.
Invested most with an independent fiduciary.
No family member.
Then I created a small fund at Pacific Crest for emergency support for employees facing domestic violence.
Anonymous donor initially.
Not because I needed sainthood.
Because I had money tied to harm and wanted some part of it to become choice for someone else.
No public speech.
Then Kathleen bought out her condo loan and started a physical therapy practice with a partner.
No Austin money.
Naomi married someone else years later? Could mention not necessary. Maybe she did eventually. No need.
Then Amanda released after serving required portion?
She had multi-year sentence. Let's say after several years, under supervised release.
Before release, victim services notified me.
Protective order?
I requested continued no-contact for one year.
Granted under supervised conditions.
Amanda complied.
That mattered.
She moved into a small apartment owned with legitimate remaining assets.
Not homeless.
No WRS income.
No family machine.
Then she wrote:
I will not contact you unless you choose.
And she did not.
Six months.
One year.
No surprise visit.
No guilt through relatives.
Progress.
Then Austin remained incarcerated longer.
No contact requests after one denied.
Then my knee.
Arthritis worsened.
At thirty six, I needed another surgery.
I hated him again that week.
Forgiveness does not stop pain flares.
Kathleen drove me to appointment.
Rachel visited.
After surgery, I walked better.
Not perfect.
Good.
Then one day I passed a birthday cake in hospital cafeteria.
Chocolate.
For a staff party.
I froze.
The tire iron.
Marble.
Amanda clapping.
Then a resident asked:
“Want a slice?”
I said yes.
Sat.
Ate cake.
Nothing happened.
Small victories are humiliatingly ordinary.
Then Detective Hill retired.
He sent me a card:
THANK YOU FOR KEEPING RECORDS.
I wrote back:
THANK RACHEL.
Rachel wrote:
STOP MAKING ME THE HERO.
May you like
I laughed.
The case had become people, not headlines.
