Chapter 5 - The Eviction at Crestview Terrace
At 4:00 p.m. on Tuesday, a freezing autumn drizzle swept across the manicured lawns of 44 Crestview Terrace.
Parked along the circular cobblestone driveway were two marked Delaware County Sheriff’s cruisers and a large, unmarked black transport van from the Civil Enforcement Division.
Inside the four-bedroom colonial house, four commercial locksmiths and two private property bailiffs were systematically drilling out the locks on every exterior door, replacing the hardware with biometric optical scanners and heavy commercial Medeco deadbolts.
Standing on the wet curb under the watchful eyes of two armed sheriff's deputies were Julian Mercer and Victoria Mercer.
Julian was dressed in a rumpled suit with no tie, his overcoat soaked by the rain, his hands shaking continuously as he clutched a single cardboard box containing his personal toiletries and a change of clothes.
Victoria sat on her designer leather trunk on the wet asphalt, weeping with the raw, ugly humiliation of an aristocrat whose social immunity had been incinerated in forty-eight hours.
"Sheriff, please!" Victoria begged, her voice cracking into a pathetic whimper. "My antique Limoges china is in the dining cabinet! My late husband's war medals are in the study safe! You cannot lock us out of our family home!"
Sheriff David Jackson stood with his thumbs hooked in his duty belt, his weathered face carved from granite.
"Mrs. Mercer," Sheriff Jackson stated, his voice flat and unyielding. "The master eviction writ was signed at eight o'clock this morning by Senior Judge Katherine Thornton. The court established that your occupancy was procured through fraudulent tenancy renewals and thirty years of unpaid municipal ground rents."
A yellow taxi pulled up to the curb, its wipers squeaking against the windshield.
The driver rolled down his window, looking at the soaked luggage on the grass. "Pick up for Mercer?"
Julian took three desperate steps toward the front porch, where I stood under the covered portico wearing a warm camel-hair coat, holding a mug of hot coffee.
"Elena! Elena, please!" Julian yelled, his voice cracking with tears. "Look at me! I know I made a terrible mistake on Sunday morning! I’ll sign whatever waiver you want! I’ll work as an ordinary clerk in your warehouse! Just don't let them take everything I have!"
I did not speak. I did not raise my hand.
I looked at the man who had thrown a greasy rag in my face forty-eight hours earlier and told me I was a maid.
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I took a slow sip of my coffee, turned my back on the driveway, and walked into the warm, illuminated foyer of my ancestral house.
The heavy mahogany front door clicked shut, the motorized commercial deadbolts engaging with two sharp, heavy clacks, sealing the Mercer family out in the freezing rain forever.
