Command. "Madison, go process Mrs. Henderson's mortgage application." Madison looks relieved. She practically runs to another station.
Derek picks up the withdrawal slip. He studies it like it is contaminated. His cologne is overwhelming this close. Expensive. Aggressive.
"Mrs..." He squints at Evelyn's handwriting. "Carter, is it?" "Yes, Mrs. Carter."
He sets the paper down. "I'm Derek Hansen, branch manager. I'm afraid there's been some confusion here." His smile is condescending, practiced. "This account number.
Are you certain this is yours?" "That's my account. My husband and I opened it in 1978." Derek's eyebrows rise.
"1978. I see." He picks up the paper again.
"Mrs. Carter, this account holds substantial assets. Very substantial. I'll need to verify your identity thoroughly." He pauses.
"How exactly did you obtain this withdrawal slip?" The question hangs in the air. The implication is clear. "I filled it out this morning," Evelyn says. "From my checkbook." Your checkbook.
Derek nods slowly. Do you have secondary identification? Proof of address? Any documentation showing your relationship to this account? I have my driver's license, my bank card.
Derek makes a show of examining her driver's license. He holds it up to the light, compares her face to the photo, takes his time. The thing is, Mrs. Carter, identity theft is a serious issue these days. I'm sure you understand.
We have protocols. A security guard appears. Frank, 50 years old, white ex- cop energy, thick arms crossed over his chest. Frank. Derek doesn't look away from Evelyn.
Please stand by. We may have a situation here. Frank positions himself behind Evelyn, close enough to intimidate. "Sir, I'm not committing any crime," Evelyn says. Her voice remains steady.
"I'm trying to access my own money." "Of course, of course." Derek's tone is soothing. Fake. "But you have to understand our position." An account of this magnitude, a withdrawal of this size, and he gestures vaguely at her appearance.
"Well, you don't exactly present as our typical high-net-worth client." Two other customers are watching now. A woman in a Chanel suit whispers to her companion. Derek pulls out his phone, takes a picture of Evelyn's license. Standard procedure, he says, but his voice is loud enough for others to hear.
He speaks into a radio clipped to his belt. Yes, we have a situation at the main counter. Possible fraud attempt. Elderly female. Stand by.
Evelyn's jaw tightens, but she says nothing. "Mrs. Carter, I'm going to need you to wait over there." Derek points to a row of chairs near the entrance, visible to everyone. While I verify this information.
How long will that take? As long as it takes. His smile is thin. "Unless you'd like to leave and come back with proper documentation." "This is proper documentation." Derek sighs like she is being difficult.
"Frank, please escort Mrs. Carter to the waiting area." Frank's hand hovers near Evelyn's elbow, doesn't touch, but the threat is clear. Evelyn walks to the chairs, sits, her purse in her lap. Her back is straight.
Derek returns to his office, but he makes phone calls where she can hear. His voice carries across the lobby. Yes, Charles Morrison's office, please. I have an elderly woman claiming to own the Carter account. Pause.
No, she doesn't look like our typical client at all. Pause. Right. Better safe than sorry. He hangs up and makes another call.
Legal department. Derek Hansen at the downtown branch. I need fraud prosecution protocols ready. He glances at Evelyn. Elderly female approximately 70s attempting to access the Carter estate account. twenty minutes pass.
Other customers are served immediately. A man in a golf shirt wants to transfer funds. Madison processes it in 5 minutes, smiles, offers him bottled water. Evelyn sits, waits. thirty minutes. A teenager opens a checking account, receives a welcome packet and a branded pen.
The teller laughs at something he says. Evelyn's hands rest on her purse. Steady, patient. Derek's assistant manager approaches. Brenda Wilcox, 38, white, ambitious, sharp blazer and sharper heels.
"Derek, what's the situation?" He shows her the withdrawal slip. Brenda's eyes widen. They talk in low voices, but their body language is clear, skeptical, suspicious. They keep looking at Evelyn.
Brenda examines the paperwork, taps her manicured nails on the counter. "Have you run her name through the system?" "Doing that now." "What about the account owner?" "James Carter, deceased five years ago." "So, the account should have been frozen for probate."
Brenda's voice rises slightly. "She's trying to steal from a dead man's estate." Derek nods. "That's what I'm thinking." This is a lie.
Derek hasn't verified anything about James's death or the estate status. He's assuming, guessing, judging. Brenda walks over to Evelyn. Stands too close. Ma'am, we're going to need additional information.
Do you have the death certificate for James Carter? Probate documents, letters testamentary. "Those were filed five years ago," Evelyn says, "with this bank." "Then we'll need to locate them, which could take days." Brenda's smile is cold.
"Perhaps you should come back next week with an attorney." "I don't need an attorney to access my own account." "That remains to be seen." Brenda turns on her heel, returns to Derek.
They whisper and nod. Derek picks up his phone again. "Yes, police non-emergency line.
This is Derek Hansen at Heritage Trust Bank downtown. We have a potential fraud situation. Elderly woman attempting to access an account that likely isn't hers. Pause. Yes, we'll wait for officers." Evelyn hears this.
Her expression doesn't change, but her grip on her purse tightens. Around the lobby, customers openly stare now. Some have their phones out. Recording. A well-dressed woman leans toward her husband.
"Can you believe that? Coming in here like she owns the place." Derek stands near his office door, arms crossed, waiting, victorious. Frank, the security guard, positions himself between Evelyn and the exit, just in case. Madison, the teller, keeps her head down.
She looks uncomfortable, but she says nothing. The air conditioning hums. The clock on the wall ticks. Outside, traffic flows past on the street. Evelyn sits in her chair, surrounded by marble and judgment.
Her faded floral dress is a stark contrast to the polished wealth around her. She looks small, old, out of place. Derek checks his watch, smiles to himself. He has no idea what's in her purse. Two police cruisers pull up outside.
Red and blue lights flash across the bank's glass facade. Customers crane their necks to see. The doors swing open. Two officers enter. Officer Mitchell is 35, white, tall, and broad-shouldered.