Chapter 9: Asking For The Tape
The legal aid clinic was on the second floor above a laundromat on Main, and you could hear the dryers thumping through the floor. I sat in a plastic chair with my leg stretched out, the bandage itching under my trousers. My shoes were still damp from the night before, even though I'd stuffed them with newspaper.
A woman called my name. She was maybe thirty, dark blazer, no makeup, a clipboard with my intake form.
"Maya Reyes?" she said.
I stood up too fast and felt the pull in my shin. "That's me."
Her office was small, one window that looked at a brick wall, a desk crowded with files. She introduced herself as Priya Desai, staff attorney. Not a full lawyer yet, she said, but supervised. She had my notes from the phone call spread out — the pay stubs, the photo of the schedule, the still of my phone clip.
"You did the right thing coming in before you asked them for anything directly," she said. She tapped the inventory I'd made. "If we ask now, we create a record they can't erase."
I told her what I wanted. I didn't want money yet. I wanted the terrace footage. I knew the estate had cameras.
Priya listened and nodded. "We send a preservation letter. It's not a lawsuit. It's a formal notice that says we know evidence exists and they have a duty to keep it."
She pulled up a template on her computer and started typing while I talked. I described the terrace exactly — the circular marble fountain, the torch on the stone pillar, the steps down to the lawn where the servers staged. I told her the camera I'd seen mounted under the eave near the kitchen door, the little black dome that would have caught the fountain and the trays.
"Time and date?" she asked.
"Saturday, sunset. I fell around seven forty," I said. "The gala started at six."
She typed that in. The letter was addressed to Whitmore Estate, Whitmore Foundation, and their registered agent. It requested preservation of all video and audio from the fountain terrace and the torch-lit service area for the entire evening, including any backup or cloud storage, and warned against deletion or overwriting.
"Who do we say has the footage?" she asked.
I thought about the voice at the end of my clip. Daniel, bring the men.
"Daniel," I said. "I don't know his last name. He was called on the radio right after I fell. He runs security."
Priya added a line naming Daniel, custodian of security footage, and any other personnel with access.
She printed two copies and had me sign both. One would go certified mail, one by email to the address on the catering contract. I watched the printer feed, the paper warm in my hands. My signature looked shaky.
We walked to the post office together. She didn't have to, but she did. At the counter I paid for certified with tracking, seven dollars and change, and the clerk stamped the green card. Priya took a photo of the receipt and the email confirmation on her phone and sent them to me.
"Now we wait," she said. "They have to respond. If they ignore it, it hurts them later."
I went back to my apartment and didn't sleep much. I kept my phone on the kitchen table and checked it every hour. My mom texted to ask if I needed a ride to change the bandage. I told her I was fine.
The response came two days later, not to me but to Priya, forwarded to my email at 4:17 p.m. while I was icing my leg on the couch.
It was on letterhead. Whitmore Estate, counsel — a man named Robert Ellison, Esq., in the city. Short, formal, three paragraphs.
Priya called me as I was reading it.
"You got it?" she said.
"Yeah," I said. I read out loud, my voice flat. "'We acknowledge receipt of your preservation request dated October 13. Video footage from the fountain terrace for the evening in question is under review and is not available to staff at this time. The estate takes its obligations seriously and will preserve materials consistent with its legal duties.'"
Priya was quiet for a second. "Read the last line again."
"'All inquiries regarding security video should be directed to Daniel Cho, Director of Estate Operations, as custodian of record.'"
I sat there with the phone against my ear. The ice was melting through the towel onto my sweatpants.
"That confirms it," Priya said. Her voice was even, but I could hear the shift. "They didn't say there is no camera. They didn't say it was overwritten. They said it's under review and not available to staff. That means the camera angle exists. And they just named your Daniel."
Daniel Cho. Director of Estate Operations. Custodian of record.
The name from the fountain — Daniel, bring the men — now had a last name and a title and a legal duty to hold the tape that showed why I fell.
I looked at the bandage on my shin and at the email on my screen, the estate's lawyer essentially admitting the footage I asked for was real and that Daniel was the gatekeeper.
"We're locked in now," Priya said. "They can't later pretend there was no camera on that terrace. And they can't claim they didn't know to save it."
May you like
I thanked her and hung up. I forwarded the letter to my own backup email and printed it. The printer jammed and I had to pull the paper out slowly so it wouldn't tear.
Outside my window the street was dark already. I folded the letter and put it with the pay stubs and the hospital discharge sheet, and I realized my hands weren't shaking anymore.
