Chapter 8 - Strip the Walls
Two police officers stepped out of the cruiser. Officer Miller, a tall officer with grey hair, walked up the driveway, adjusting his duty belt.
"Everything alright here?" Officer Miller asked, looking between the hysterical woman in rollers and me holding my legal folder.
"Officer!" Margaret shrieked, tears of rage springing to her eyes. "This woman is trying to rob my house! She brought moving trucks! Stop her!"
I calmly handed Officer Miller the folder, along with my ID and the copy of the civil standby request I had filed online at 5:00 AM.
"Officer," I explained professionally. "I am the sole purchaser of all major furnishings, appliances, and detachable fixtures in this home. I have the receipts, proof of purchase, and serial numbers matching the items inside. The homeowner cancelled our personal contract yesterday, and I am here to retrieve my property. I am asking for your presence to prevent any physical altercations."
Officer Miller flipped through the thick binder, examining the receipts, bank statements, and corresponding serial numbers. He took two minutes to read through the documentation before looking up at Margaret and Daniel.
"Ma'am," Officer Miller said to Margaret. "These receipts are under Miss Emily's name. They show proof of ownership. As long as she does not cause structural damage to the real estate, she has a legal right to remove her personal property."
"Structural damage?!" Margaret yelled. "She bought the kitchen cabinets! Is she going to rip my kitchen off the wall?!"
I stepped forward, looking Margaret dead in the eye.
"The cabinets are built-in fixtures, so I'll leave them," I said with a terrifyingly sweet smile. "But the sub-zero refrigerator? The front-load washer and dryer? The Italian leather sofa? The bedroom sets? The designer chandelier in the dining room that I had custom-installed? They are coming with me."
"No!" Daniel cried out, rushing forward to grab my arm. "Emily, please! Don't do this! My mom has nowhere to sit! Where is she going to keep her food?!"
"She can keep it on the floor, Daniel," I said, yanking my arm out of his grasp. "Just like she wanted me to sit on the pavement yesterday."
I nodded to Big Dan. "Start with the living room."
The four movers pushed past Margaret and Daniel, entering the house with heavy footfalls.
Within minutes, the sounds of modern comfort being stripped away began echoing through the street.
CRASH. The 75-inch television was unmounted from the wall. SCRAPE. The 250,000-peso leather sofa was wheeled out the front door on a dolly and loaded into the back of the blue truck. CLUNK. The state-of-the-art washer and dryer were disconnected from their pipes and rolled down the stone path.
Margaret sat on the front porch steps, weeping hysterically, her kaftan trailing in the dirt as she watched her luxurious living room emptied onto the street in broad daylight.
May you like
Neighbors gathered on their lawns, pointing, whispering, and taking videos with their phones.
Santa Barbara was a small town. By noon, everyone on the block—and half the municipal office where Daniel worked—would know exactly what had happened.
