Chapter 4 - The Unraveling of Derek
By Friday morning, four days after the fateful barbecue, the dominoes were falling with terrifying speed.
Derek had managed to secure his fifteen-thousand-dollar bail through a shady hard-money lender in South Chicago, using his white BMW as collateral.
He walked out of the 4th Precinct building at 10:00 a.m. wearing the same torn, stained salmon shirt he’d worn on Sunday, expecting to return to his mother’s comfortable home, eat a warm meal, and plan how he would sue me for damaging his reputation.
Instead, when his cab pulled up to 412 Maple Avenue, he found two county sheriff’s deputies standing on the front porch, accompanied by a locksmith who was actively replacing the deadbolts on the front door.
Sitting on the front lawn, resting on a blue plastic tarp under the grey autumn sky, were six cardboard boxes containing his designer clothes, golf clubs, and high-end electronics.
Derek jumped out of the cab, his face turning beet red. "What the hell is going on here?! Mom! Mom!"
The front door opened, and Ryan stepped onto the porch, flanked by Sarah Lin and a uniformed sheriff’s deputy.
"What are you doing in my mother’s house, Ryan?!" Derek roared, charging up the lawn.
The deputy immediately stepped forward, resting his hand on his taser holster. "Step back, sir! Keep your distance from the residence!"
"This is my house!" Derek shouted, pointing a shaky, nicotine-stained finger at Ryan. "Mom owns this place!"
"Actually, Derek," Sarah Lin spoke up smoothly, holding a certified court document, "under Section 4 of the Emergency Probate Injunction issued two hours ago by Judge Vance, this property has been placed under temporary judicial receivership due to ongoing evidence of estate dissipation."
Derek froze, his breath catching in his throat. "Receivership?"
"Your mother," Sarah explained with cold, legal precision, "has been stripped of her power of attorney over Arthur Hollis’s estate. All primary accounts, including the title to this house, have been frozen pending a full forensic audit by the State Fraud Division."
"Where... where is Mom?" Derek stammered, looking around frantically.
"She's currently at her sister's house in Rockford," Ryan replied, his voice calm, steady, and devoid of anger. "Her personal credit cards—which were paid directly from Dad's trust account—have been cancelled. And as for your white BMW?"
Ryan pointed toward the street, where a heavy flatbed tow truck was currently backing up toward the curb, its yellow warning lights flashing.
"The lender you used for your bail money discovered you listed an asset held under a fraudulent LLC," Ryan added. "They're repossessing the car to cover their risk."
Derek looked from the tow truck to the cardboard boxes on the lawn, then at his younger brother.
For his entire life, Derek Hollis had relied on three fundamental assumptions: that he was smarter than everyone else, that his mother would fix his mistakes, and that his younger brother would always endure his cruelty with a quiet, submissive smile.
In four days, those three assumptions had been pulverized into dust.
"Ryan... please," Derek stammered, his voice dropping its arrogant boom, turning high, raspy, and desperate. "We’re brothers, man! You can’t do this to me! I don’t have anywhere to go! I don’t have any money!"
Ryan looked at Derek.
He looked at the torn salmon shirt, at the man who had punched him while his hands were down, who had poured beer over his wife’s head, and who had spent four years stealing from a disabled sister living in a basement.
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"You have six cardboard boxes, Derek," Ryan said softly. "And you have a court date on November 14th. I suggest you find a public defender who knows how to negotiate a plea deal."
Ryan turned around, stepped inside the house, and closed the heavy oak door. The new deadbolt clicked into place with a sharp, heavy, final sound that echoed across the quiet street.
