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Two policemen escorted my brother-in-law, Morty Sinclair, into the courtroom. The shackles around his wrists and ankles jangled as he shuffled across the floor to the defense table.
The judge banged his gavel to quiet the room. “To the charge of second degree murder, how do you plead?”
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The Del Vista Nursing and Rehabilitation Park in Boca Raton, Florida which we had selected to place our mother after her stroke was not one of those Medicaid warehouses. It was more like a five-star hotel and charged like one, a thousand dollars per day for a private room plus incidentals which added up to around four hundred thousand per year. However, our mother could afford it even if she lived the ten more years the doctors predicted. But she didn’t. She died in six months. The question I had was–which one of my brothers or sisters-in-law murdered her?
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