Chapter 4 - The Pitbull of Court Square
Marcus Vance did not look like the corporate lawyers Ethan used to fawn over in Manhattan.
His office sat on the fourth floor of a pre-war brownstone near Court Square in Long Island City, its walls lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves sagging under the weight of leather-bound New York legal reporters. Marcus himself was sixty-two years old, built like a brick warehouse, with a thick mane of silver hair, broken veins across a boxer’s flattened nose, and hands that looked large enough to crush a bowling ball.
He sat behind an enormous oak desk, reading through Salvatore Costello's notarized confession, the digital chat logs, and the wire receipts I had laid before him.
For twenty minutes, the only sound in the room was the ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner and the rustle of turning pages.
Finally, Marcus pushed his half-moon reading glasses up onto his forehead, leaned back in his leather chair, and let out a low, appreciative whistle.
"Your husband is an idiot," Marcus said bluntly.
"He thinks he’s a genius," I corrected him. "He told me to my face this morning: *'Prove it. The signature is perfect.'*"
"A forged signature is only perfect until the person whose name was stolen produces an alibi," Marcus said, tapping the desk with a thick pen. "In New York, Grand Larceny in the First Degree—theft of property valued over one million dollars, which this apartment plus the nine hundred grand easily exceeds—carries a mandatory state prison sentence of up to twenty-five years. Class B felony."
"And the deed?" I asked.
"Void *ab initio*," Marcus said, the Latin rolling off his tongue with venomous satisfaction. "A forged deed conveys zero legal title. It’s a nullity. It doesn't matter if it was recorded with the City of New York, stamped by the governor, or blessed by the Pope. The minute we prove fraud in the execution, the title reverts back to the tenancy-in-common you held originally."
"How long will that take?" Dad asked from the armchair beside me, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "Because right now, my daughter is locked out of her own home, and that witch Margaret is sleeping in Susan’s bed."
"If we file a standard civil quiet-title action? Eighteen months to two years," Marcus said.
My heart dropped into my stomach. "I don't have eighteen months, Marcus. Ethan’s closing on that Palm Springs house in seven days. If that money leaves escrow and gets converted into physical California real estate under a blind corporate shield, it will take years of out-of-state litigation to untangle."
Marcus smiled. It was not a pleasant expression. It was the grin of a wolf that had just spotted a limping deer.
"I didn't say we were filing a standard civil suit, Claire," Marcus murmured. "We aren't going to play defense. We’re going to hit them with an emergency ex-parte Article 63 injunction tomorrow morning at 9:00 AM in Queens County Supreme Court. We are going to freeze that California escrow account before the morning coffee cools down. And then, we’re going to handle the police."
"What about Robert’s assault charge?" Dad asked. "Margaret’s claiming I battered her."
"We turn their own weapon against them," Marcus replied, pulling a fresh legal pad toward him. "Did your building have hallway cameras?"
"No," I sighed. "Just the lobby."
"Doesn't matter," Marcus said, his eyes glittering. "Ethan forgot that in New York City, landlords and management companies are required to keep doorman logs and electronic keycard records. Did your mother have her own key fob?"
"Yes. Registered to her name."
"And what time did Ethan drag her into the hallway?"
"Six-fifteen in the morning," I said, the memory searing through my skull like a hot needle. "Right before I walked in."
Marcus scribbled a note. "Good. If Susan’s fob was used to access the stairwell or the front door at 6:14 AM, but the doorman saw Ethan bodily holding her, we establish force. Furthermore, Margaret filed a false police report claiming Robert assaulted her *inside* the apartment. But if the hospital records show Robert’s knuckles have no defensive bruising, and Margaret’s medical report from the EMTs shows no blunt trauma consistent with a strike, she’s committed a misdemeanor under Penal Law 240.50—falsely reporting an incident."
Marcus stood up, buttoning his charcoal suit jacket.
"Here is what you are going to do tonight, Claire," he instructed, pointing a heavy finger at me. "You are not going to call Ethan. You are not going to text him. You are not going to warn him that we spoke to Costello. Let him believe you are broken. Let him believe you’re sitting in your parents' kitchen crying over your forty-seven dollars."
"And tomorrow?" I asked.
May you like
"Tomorrow morning, Ethan has a meeting scheduled with the Palm Springs title officer via Zoom to finalize the closing wire release," Marcus said, glancing at the chat logs. "At precisely 9:15 AM, while he’s smiling on that camera, I’m going to serve him with a temporary restraining order, a notice of pendency, and a criminal summons that will freeze every single dollar he has ever touched."
***
