Chapter 8 - The Monday Trap
By seven o'clock on Sunday morning, the snow had stopped falling, leaving a thick blanket of frost over the town.
I sat at my home office desk, surrounded by eight years of bank statements, corporate filings, and the stack of documents Walter had left with me. Opposite me sat Diane Ross, my chief corporate counsel and one of the sharpest commercial litigators in the state, whom I had summoned with a six a.m. phone call.
Diane turned the final page of Harold Vance’s proxy filing and let out a low whistle through her teeth.
"This is breathtakingly sloppy," Diane said, dropping her gold pen onto the desk. "Evelyn’s notary log won't have your signature recorded. I already checked the state database; her notary journal hasn't been audited in three years, but if she can't produce an entry signed by you on the date of this document, it’s an automatic Class 4 felony for falsifying an official jurat."
"What about Arthur?" I asked, my voice completely devoid of emotion.
"Arthur presented this forged instrument to a federally insured depository institution," Diane replied, tapping the First Horizon draft. "That is bank fraud under 18 U.S.C. Section 1344. The statutory maximum is thirty years, Lauren. If Marcus Vance at First Horizon was in on it, he goes down too. But if Marcus was just following protocol and waiting for the seventy-two-hour window, Arthur is hanging completely out to dry."
I stood up and looked out the window. Down in the living room, Tyler was laughing as Maria helped him assemble a Lego fire station. The sound of his innocent joy was the anchor keeping me from losing my mind.
"I don't want them in prison, Diane," I said quietly.
Diane raised an eyebrow. "After what they did to you? After what they did to Tyler?"
"I don't want them in prison because a criminal trial takes eighteen months, it will drag Tyler’s name through the local papers, and my mother will spend the rest of her life playing the tragic martyr to every aunt and cousin we have," I turned around, looking Diane dead in the eyes. "I want them ruined. Completely, utterly, and legally stripped of every weapon they have ever used against me."
Diane smiled—a sharp, wolfish grin that showed her teeth. "Now you're speaking my language. What do you have in mind?"
"The bank opens at eight-thirty tomorrow morning," I said. "Arthur and Nick will be there at eight-fifteen to ensure the wire goes through. Marcus Vance will be waiting for the discharge confirmation from St. Jude’s."
I picked up my cell phone. "I'm going to give Harold Vance a call right now. And by tomorrow morning, my father is going to sign a very different set of papers."
At eight-fifteen on Monday morning, the lobby of First Horizon Commercial Bank was quiet. The marble floors gleamed beneath the holiday chandeliers, and the smell of stale coffee drifted from the executive suite behind the teller line.
Arthur Vance sat in a leather armchair outside the commercial accounts office, dressed in his Sunday suit. His wingtip shoes tapped nervously against the rug. Beside him stood Nick, wearing a wrinkle-free blazer, though the dark purple bags under his eyes and his frantic thumbing on his smartphone betrayed his terror.
"Relax," Arthur muttered under his breath, leaning toward his son. "Harold said the paperwork is ironclad. Marcus just needs the time-stamp on the discharge."
"Brenda took the kids to Walter’s, Dad," Nick whispered hoarsely. "She blocked my number. If I don't get the wire reference number by noon, the Chicago people are going to the county prosecutor."
"I told you, it’s handled," Arthur hissed. "Lauren is still at home resting. Evelyn drove past her townhouse yesterday; the car was in the driveway and the blinds were drawn. She’s too sick to do anything. Once the money is in Elmwood’s account, we wire the forty-two thousand, pay off the Oakridge lease arrears, and Lauren can’t do a damn thing until Harold finishes the receivership filing."
The heavy oak door to the commercial manager's office swung open.
Marcus Vance stepped out. His face was not the face of a friendly family cousin ready to hand over a bag of gold. He looked pale, sweaty, and completely rigid.
"Arthur. Nicholas," Marcus said, his voice flat. "Come inside."
Nick practically shoved his father through the door in his eagerness to cross the threshold. "Marcus, did the wire clear? We need the SWIFT confirmation immediately—"
Nick stopped dead in his tracks.
Sitting at the center of the mahogany conference table was not a loan officer.
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It was Harold Vance, the senior partner of the family law firm, looking as if he had just been told he had twenty minutes to live. Next to Harold sat Diane Ross, with a digital audio recorder spinning silently on the polished wood.
And sitting at the head of the table, wearing a crisp navy wool coat, holding a porcelain cup of black coffee, was me.
