Chapter 6 - The Freezing of the Desert Empire
By 11:30 AM, the shockwave of Justice Thorne’s emergency order had crossed three time zones.
In Marcus Vance’s office, the speakerphone was dialed into a conference call with the chief legal counsel of Desert Oasis Title Company in Palm Springs.
"Mr. Vance," the corporate attorney, a woman named Patricia Diaz, said over the line, her tone taut with urgency. "We have received the certified copy of the New York Supreme Court injunction and the accompanying notice of fraud. Escrow Number 98-4412 is officially locked down."
"Has any portion of the eight hundred and ninety-nine thousand been disbursed?" Marcus demanded.
"Not a single penny," Diaz confirmed. "The closing was scheduled for noon Pacific Time today. Ms. Chloe Vance—no relation to you, I assume—was in our lobby screaming at our escrow manager twenty minutes ago, demanding the seller's agent receive the earnest wire. When our compliance officer presented her with the restraining order naming her as a person of interest in an interstate grand larceny investigation, she walked out. Our branch manager reported that she cleared her personal desk and left the premises."
I let out a breath I felt like I had been holding for forty-eight hours.
The money was safe. It wasn't gone. It was sitting in a federally insured escrow vault, untouchable until the fraud investigation concluded.
"Thank you, Ms. Diaz," Marcus said. "I trust you will cooperate fully with the Queens County District Attorney's office?"
"Our legal team is already uploading the entire escrow package, including all communication between Ms. Vance and Mr. Rivas, to your prosecutor’s portal," Diaz replied. "Good luck, Mrs. Ortega. I’m sorry you had to deal with this."
Marcus hit the end button and looked across the desk at me.
"Step one complete," he said. "The bleeding has stopped. Now, we reclaim the castle."
Twenty minutes later, Dad, Marcus, and I arrived outside the apartment building in Queens.
Two uniformed officers from the 108th Precinct were already parked out front, accompanied by a locksmith we had hired. As we stepped into the lobby, the doorman, a kind Dominican man named Hector who had known me for years, rushed forward from behind his desk.
"Claire!" Hector gasped, his hands trembling. "I am so sorry about yesterday morning. Ethan told me your mother was having a violent psychological episode and that I shouldn't interfere or he’d report me to the building board. I wanted to help Susan, I swear to God—"
"It’s okay, Hector," I said gently, touching his forearm. "I know how Ethan manipulates people. It’s over now. The officers are here to enforce a writ of assistance."
We took the elevator up to the fourth floor.
The hallway carpet still bore the scuff marks from yesterday’s struggle. A single, crushed white pill—one of my mother’s blood pressure tablets—was still wedged against the baseboard near my door. I knelt down, picked up the broken pill, and wrapped it in a tissue, feeling the anger inside me solidify into cold iron.
Marcus nodded to the locksmith.
The locksmith stepped forward with an electric pick gun, but before he could insert the probe into the deadbolt, the door clicked open from the inside.
Margaret stood in the entryway.
She had taken off her cashmere coat and was wearing one of my custom bakery aprons—an apron my mother had hand-embroidered with my name for my thirtieth birthday. Behind her, the apartment was an absolute disaster. Half of my vintage dishware was packed into open cardboard boxes stacked in the living room; my framed family photos had been torn off the wall and tossed into a black trash bag near the television.
Margaret sneered, leaning against the doorframe. "You can't come in here. Arthur is filing an appeal. This is my son's apartment, and until a judge tells me otherwise, you’re trespassing."
Officer Martinez, the same officer who had arrived the morning before, stepped past me, his hand resting on his duty belt. His face was set in stone.
"Mrs. Rivas," Martinez said firmly. "Step aside."
"Did you hear me, officer? She’s trespassing!"
"No, ma'am," Martinez replied, pulling a laminated court order from his pocket and thrusting it toward her face. "Justice Thorne has issued an emergency order granting Mrs. Claire Ortega exclusive and immediate occupancy of these premises. Furthermore, there is an active order of protection barring you and Ethan Rivas from being within five hundred feet of this building."
Margaret’s eyes widened with outrage. "This is ridiculous! Where am I supposed to go? My son isn't even here! He went to meet with a bondsman!"
"You have ten minutes to collect your purse and your coat," Martinez said coldly. "Anything else you leave behind will be retrieved via a scheduled police escort next week. If you are still inside this apartment in eleven minutes, I will arrest you for criminal contempt."
"You can't do this to me!" Margaret shrieked, her voice reaching that ear-splitting pitch she used whenever she didn't get her way. "Claire, tell him! I am an old woman! I have a heart condition!"
I stepped forward until I was standing inches from Margaret’s trembling face.
I reached out, took the ties of my embroidered apron from around her neck, and slowly pulled it off her shoulders.
"You didn't care about a heart condition yesterday when my mother was lying on this exact floor," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "You didn't care when you dumped her medicine in the dirt. Get out of my mother’s house, Margaret. Before I let Officer Martinez search that purse for the jewelry you stole off my dresser."
Margaret stared at me, the utter terror finally setting into her bones. She snatched her purse from the entryway console, shoved past the two police officers, and practically sprinted toward the elevator, completely forgetting her wooden cane, which lay abandoned against my umbrella stand.
Dad walked into the apartment, looked around at the boxes, and let out a long, deep breath.
May you like
"Locksmith," Dad called out over his shoulder. "Change every damn lock on this door. Put two deadbolts on it. And give the keys to my daughter."
***
