Chapter 5 - The Legal Threats and Unpaid Bills
On Friday afternoon, the mail arrived at my office containing a thick, cream-colored envelope bearing the return address of *Hollis, Pritchard & Croft, Attorneys at Law*, located in Savannah.
Clara brought it into my office with a look of profound skepticism on her face.
“Looks like Rachel found herself a lawyer,” she said, dropping the envelope onto the blotter. “Or at least someone who owns an expensive laser printer.”
I picked up the silver letter opener, sliced through the top fold, and extracted three pages of heavy watermarked paper.
The letter was signed by a man named Gregory Croft. I knew the name; he was a junior partner at the firm and, more importantly, the husband of one of Rachel’s former sorority sisters. He specialized primarily in residential real estate closings and minor probate disputes—hardly a titan of the maritime and corporate litigation world I was accustomed to dealing with.
The letter was a masterpiece of legal posturing.
It asserted that my actions on Saturday, May 18th, constituted “detrimental reliance,” “breach of an implied oral license,” and “intentional infliction of emotional distress.” It claimed that by allowing my parents to view the property in previous years, I had created a “reasonable expectation of familial accessibility.” It listed the damages Rachel had allegedly incurred:
* *Beaufort Bistro (Non-refundable catering contract): $4,850.00*
* *Island Event Rentals (Tables, chairs, marquee canopy): $2,400.00*
* *Floral Arrangements and Coastal Decor: $1,650.00*
* *Sound System and Audio-Visual Technician: $1,200.00*
* *Damages for Emotional Distress and Defamation of Character: $25,000.00*
* *Total Demand: $35,100.00*
The letter concluded with a demand that the sum be remitted via cashier’s check within ten business days, failing which Mr. Croft’s office would “immediately initiate formal civil proceedings in the Court of Common Pleas for Beaufort County.”
I didn't even blink. I picked up my desk phone and dialed an extension that connected directly to an office three doors down the corridor.
“Marcus?” I said when the call was answered. “Do you have twenty minutes?”
Marcus Vance—no relation to Arthur, though the coincidence of names had amused us both when I hired his firm four years ago—was a senior partner at Vance, Sterling & Cole. He was fifty-eight, possessed thirty years of corporate litigation experience, and charged six hundred and fifty dollars an hour because he rarely lost.
Three minutes later, Marcus was sitting in the leather armchair across from my desk, his silver pen tapping against the legal pad on his knee as he scanned Gregory Croft’s letter.
By the time he reached the third page, a slow, broad grin had spread across his face.
“Where did your sister find this clown?” Marcus asked, tossing the letter onto the coffee table. “A box of Cracker Jacks?”
“He’s married to her college friend,” I explained. “I believe he mostly handles title transfers for suburban subdivisions.”
“Clearly,” Marcus chuckled, leaning back and crossing his legs. “Amanda, this isn't a legal demand. This is an extortion note written by someone who skimmed a first-year contracts textbook in an airport lounge. ‘Implied oral license’? For eighty-two people at a private residence that the licensee had never set foot in? It’s laughable. If he filed this in Common Pleas, the presiding judge would throw it out with prejudice and sanction Croft under Rule 11 for filing a frivolous pleading before we even finished our opening remarks.”
“What about the detrimental reliance claim?” I asked.
“Detrimental reliance requires a promise made by the defendant upon which the plaintiff reasonably relied to their detriment,” Marcus said, ticking the points off on his fingers. “Did you make a promise to Rachel?”
“I haven't spoken to her since November.”
“Did you make a promise to your parents that they were authorized to relay to Rachel?”
“I told them explicitly, in writing—which I still have in a text exchange from August of 2021—that Rachel was never to be informed of the house’s existence.”
“Beautiful,” Marcus smiled. “And what about the property ownership itself? When was the deed executed?”
“Monday, May 13th. The Vance family took possession on Friday the 17th. The party was scheduled for Saturday the 18th.”
“So at the time the alleged ‘tort’ occurred, you were neither the owner nor the possessor of the land,” Marcus said, shaking his head. “You had no legal capacity to grant entry, license, or access to anyone, even if you had wanted to. Croft knows this. Or rather, he would know this if he spent five minutes looking at the Beaufort County public records index before he signed his name to this garbage.”
“So how do we respond?” I asked.
Marcus’s eyes narrowed into the cold, calculating slits of a predator that had just spotted an injured rabbit.
“We don't just respond, Amanda. We counter-strike. We remind Mr. Croft that when you throw rocks at someone who lives in a fortress, you should make sure your own house isn't made of spun sugar.”
He picked up the legal pad and began scribbling notes with frightening speed.
“First,” Marcus said, “I will draft a response to Croft informing him that any formal filing of this action will be met with an immediate motion for sanctions against his firm personally, along with a counterclaim for malicious prosecution and abuse of process.
Second, we address the social media campaign. You saved those screen captures?”
“Every single one,” I said, sliding a USB drive across the desk. “Along with the comments from family members calling me a sociopath, a thief, and a criminal.”
“Excellent,” Marcus purred. “We draft a formal notice of intent to sue for defamation *per se*. In South Carolina, accusing someone of criminal conduct or business dishonesty carries presumed damages. Rachel’s posts directly attacked your professional integrity as a corporate consultant. We will name Rachel Collins individually, and we will advise Mr. Croft that if his wife or any of her friends shared those posts, they will be joined as co-defendants.”
He paused, looking up at me over his half-moon reading glasses.
“And third, Amanda… what about that promissory note you mentioned to your father on Monday?”
I took a deep breath. “It’s in my safe deposit box. Seventy-one thousand dollars. Signed by my father, with the Seabrook house listed as the secondary collateral instrument.”
Marcus let out a low whistle. “You have a perfected security interest on their primary residence?”
“I do.”
“Then we include a formal notice of maturity,” Marcus said, his voice dropping into a tone of quiet, surgical brutality. “We inform your father that the note reaches its seven-year expiration on June 30th. We demand full satisfaction of the balance—seventy-one thousand two hundred and forty dollars, plus statutory interest—by five o'clock on that date, failing which we will file a praecipe for foreclosure.”
I looked out the window. Down on Broad Street, the palmetto trees were swaying in the afternoon sea breeze. For years, I had held that note like a secret shield, hoping I would never have to use it. I had kept it in the dark because I didn't want to destroy my father's pride.
But my father had stood in my office four days ago and watched two security guards escort him out, still demanding twelve thousand dollars for Rachel’s crab dip and rental chairs.
They didn't want peace. They wanted submission.
“Draft the letters, Marcus,” I said quietly. “Send Croft’s response by certified courier this afternoon. And send the notice of maturity to my father’s house by registered mail.”
Marcus nodded, his pen clicking shut. “Consider it done. And Amanda?”
“Yes?”
May you like
“Tell your niece she can pick out whatever dorm furniture she wants for Clemson. By the time I’m finished with this family, they won't have enough money left to buy a postcard, let alone fight you for her custody.”
***
