Chapter 4 - The Unraveling of Marlo’s Circle
Arthur Vance’s office was situated on the top floor of a restored brick building overlooking the courthouse square. The mahogany shelves were lined with leather-bound legal statutes, and a wide mahogany desk sat in the center of the room, covered in neat stacks of paper.
Arthur Vance himself was a man in his late fifties with sharp, hawkish features, silver hair, and a pair of rimless glasses that rested on the bridge of a crooked nose. He looked like a man who spent his weekends hunting wolves and his weekdays tearing through corporate fraudsters.
Mom sat in an armchair beside me, clutching a crumpled tissue. Aunt Clara sat on her other side, holding her hand. Elias sat next to me, his presence solid and grounding.
Arthur Vance adjusted his glasses and looked down at the documents spread across his desk: the hospice medical logs, the high-resolution copies of Dad’s forged checks, the quitclaim deed, and the bank transfer summaries.
The lawyer leaned back in his leather chair, steepled his fingers, and let out a long, low whistle.
“Mrs. Vance,” Arthur said, addressing Mom. “In thirty years of estate litigation, I have seen some truly brazen acts of familial theft. But this? This is breathtaking in its arrogance.”
Mom flinched. “Is it… is it really as bad as Chloe says?”
“It’s worse,” Arthur said bluntly. He tapped a finger against the quitclaim deed. “This deed was executed on November 2nd. According to the certified hospice medical chart Chloe provided, your late husband Arthur was administered twenty milligrams of liquid morphine every four hours starting October 28th to manage breakthrough bone cancer pain. Under state law, an individual under continuous palliative narcotic sedation is legally incapacitated. They cannot execute a contract, let alone transfer real property.”
Arthur picked up the deed, pointing to the bottom signature.
“Furthermore, look at this notary stamp. Ronald Jenkins. I know this name. He operates out of a pack-and-ship storefront three miles from the hospital. He has already been sanctioned once by the Secretary of State’s licensing division for failing to properly verify identities on mobile notarizations. If this kid put his stamp on a document while Arthur Vance was semi-conscious in a hospice bed, he is looking at the immediate revocation of his license and criminal misdemeanor charges for official misconduct.”
“What about the money?” Elias asked, leaning forward. “The fifty-two thousand dollars?”
“Grand larceny in the second degree,” Arthur Vance said without hesitation. “Forgery in the second degree, twenty-six individual counts. In this state, financial exploitation of a vulnerable elder carries mandatory sentencing enhancements. If your sister Marlo took that money without a properly executed power of attorney—and even *with* a power of attorney, using an elder’s funds for personal benefit rather than the elder’s care constitutes criminal conversion—she has committed multiple Class C felonies.”
Mom let out a broken wail, hiding her face in Clara’s shoulder. “She’s my daughter… my firstborn… how could she do this to her own father?”
“Because she never faced consequences, Mom,” I said softly, resting a hand on her knee. “Every time Marlo lied, you told us to keep the peace. Every time she hurt someone, you told us she was just sensitive and misunderstood. She learned that she could take whatever she wanted because no one would ever have the courage to stop her.”
Arthur Vance cleared his throat, pulling a legal pad toward him.
“Here is our plan of action,” the attorney said crisply. “First, I am drafting an emergency petition for an *ex parte* temporary restraining order and preliminary injunction. We are filing it with the county court by two o'clock today. This will immediately freeze any title actions on your mother’s home. Marlo will be legally prohibited from mortgaging, selling, transferring, or entering the property.”
“Can she sell it right now?” Aunt Clara asked, alarmed.
“If she has an unscrupulous private lender or a predatory cash-for-homes buyer? Absolutely,” Arthur said. “Which is why the emergency freeze is vital. Second, I am serving a formal litigation hold letter on Marlo’s personal bank, her LLC accounts, and Ronald Jenkins, the notary. That prevents them from destroying any records, emails, or text messages.”
“What about the police?” Elias asked.
Arthur glanced at Elias. “We take this packet directly to Detective Miller in the financial crimes division. I happen to know him well. When a case is handed to law enforcement with every check, chart, and forged signature already forensically highlighted by an attorney, they don't drag their feet. They move fast.”
Just as Arthur finished speaking, my phone buzzed on the desk.
It was an incoming FaceTime call from Cousin Josie.
I hesitated, looking at Elias. “It’s Josie.”
“Take it,” Elias said. “Put it on speaker.”
I swiped the screen and answered. Josie’s face popped up, flushed red, her hair windswept. In the background behind her, I could see the floral wallpaper of Aunt Clara’s living room.
“Chloe! Are you with Aunt Clara?” Josie asked, her voice breathless.
“Yes, we’re all in the lawyer’s office. What happened?”
“Marlo just showed up at Mom’s house!” Josie shouted into the phone. “She thought Aunt Clara was home. She was banging on the front door, screaming that someone hacked her Facebook, screaming that Mom needed to call her lawyer. And Chloe… she wasn't alone.”
A cold dread pooled in my gut. “Who was she with?”
“She had Ronald Jenkins with her!” Josie said, lowering her voice to a furious whisper. “The notary guy! He was pacing on the driveway, freaking out, yelling at Marlo that people were already calling his boss, saying he was going to prison! Marlo was shaking him by the jacket, telling him to keep his mouth shut and that she would handle it!”
Arthur Vance leaned toward my phone, his sharp eyes flashing with predatory triumph.
“Josie,” Arthur commanded in an authoritative boom. “Did you record them?”
Josie blinked on the screen, startled by the lawyer’s voice. “I… I have a Ring doorbell camera. It records audio and video in 1080p. It recorded the whole thing on the porch. Ronald was yelling: *‘You told me the old man gave permission! You told me he was asleep and would sign later! You forged his name right in front of me in the parking lot!’*”
Arthur Vance slammed his palm onto the mahogany desk with a thunderous crack.
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“Checkmate,” the lawyer whispered, a cold, terrifying smile spreading across his face. “That’s witness tampering and a full confession on digital tape. Send that file to my secure email right now, young lady.”
***
