Chapter 9 - The Foreclosure of Elmwood Terrace
The color drained from Nick's face so fast I thought he was going to collapse directly onto the oriental rug. His knees buckled slightly, and he grabbed the back of a high-backed leather chair to catch his balance.
"Lauren?" Arthur stammered, his hand freezing on the handle of his briefcase. "What... what are you doing here? You're supposed to be—"
"In a hospital bed?" I said, setting my coffee cup down with a delicate, sharp clink against the saucer. "Sedated? Conveniently unable to answer the phone while you rob my company?"
"Lauren, this is a family misunderstanding," Arthur said, his voice instantly dropping into the condescending, authoritarian tone he had used to control me since I was a child. "We stepped in to protect your assets while you were medically compromised. Your brother was simply facilitating—"
"Shut your mouth, Arthur," Diane Ross commanded. Her voice cracked like a bullwhip across the room. She didn't raise it; she didn't need to. The raw legal steel in her delivery pinned my father to the floor. "You are on the record. This meeting is being transcribed for our formal fraud complaint to the United States Attorney for the Southern District."
Arthur blinked, his chest heaving. He turned frantically to Harold. "Harold! What the hell is this? Tell them! You drew up the proxy!"
Harold Vance didn't look at Arthur. He kept his eyes glued to the legal pad in front of him, his knuckles white.
"The proxy was executed using a forged signature and an invalid notary seal provided by Evelyn," Harold said, his voice shaking. "I have already executed an affidavit of nullification. As of seven o'clock this morning, the instrument is void *ab initio*. Furthermore, I have submitted a formal notice to the state bar that my office was misled by Nicholas and Arthur Vance regarding the primary guarantor's consent."
"You coward!" Nick screamed, lunging toward the table. "You told us it was standard procedure! You took a five-thousand-dollar retainer to draft it!"
"Nick, sit down," I said.
My brother stopped. He stared at me, his eyes wide and wild, the sweat gleaming on his forehead.
"Sit. Down," I repeated.
He sank into the leather chair, burying his face in his trembling hands.
I reached into my briefcase, pulled out a slender blue folder, and slid it across the mahogany table until it stopped directly in front of my father.
"What is this?" Arthur whispered.
"That," Diane said, "is your settlement agreement. You are going to sign it, Arthur. And you are going to sign it right now."
Arthur looked down at the paper, his hands trembling as he pulled his reading glasses from his breast pocket. "What... what does it say?"
"It says three things," I said, leaning forward.
"First, you will execute a complete, unconditional quitclaim deed transferring your fifty-percent ownership of the warehouse depot on Commerce Drive to Vance Logistics LLC, terminating your equity interest entirely. You will receive zero compensation."
Arthur gasped. "That warehouse is my retirement! That property is worth four hundred thousand dollars!"
"It was worth four hundred thousand dollars when I bought out the mortgage eight years ago while you were gambling on penny stocks," I replied coldly. "You contributed forty thousand dollars to the down payment and took a fifty-percent equity stake because 'family looks after family.' Today, that arrangement ends."
"And the second thing?" Nick croaked, looking up from his hands.
"The second thing," I said, looking at Nick, "is that you will sign a formal confession of judgment acknowledging a debt of sixty-eight thousand dollars to Vance Logistics for unauthorized personal expenditures, including the back rent on Oakridge. You will make monthly restitution payments of twelve hundred dollars directly to my firm’s escrow account."
"I don't have twelve hundred dollars a month!" Nick cried, his voice breaking into a pathetic sob. "Brenda left me! Her father took the car! I'm living out of a suitcase at the Marbury!"
"Then you better get a job at the distribution docks unloading freight," I said. "Because if you miss a single payment, Diane files the confession of judgment with the county clerk, the sheriff seizes your personal property, and the Chicago investors will be handed a complete certified copy of this transcript."
Nick choked on a sob, leaning his forehead against the cool mahogany.
Arthur looked back at the document, his face turning an ugly, mottled shade of crimson. "And what if I refuse, Lauren? What if I walk out of this bank right now? You wouldn't send your own father to prison. Think of your mother! Think of how this will look!"
I looked at Arthur Vance. For thirty-two years, this man had been the towering, infallible figure of my life. I had spent my twenties desperate for his nod of approval, spending my nights working seventy-hour weeks just to hear him say he was proud of me.
Now, sitting under the harsh fluorescent lights of a commercial bank, I saw him for what he truly was: a vain, hollow, cowardly man who had used my labor to prop up his favorite son, while treating my own child like a stray dog at his door.
"You're right, Arthur," I said softly. "I'm not sending you to prison."
Arthur let out a ragged breath of relief, his shoulders slumping. "Thank God. I knew you'd see sense—"
"Instead," I continued, "I am calling the city code inspector and the county tax assessor on Elmwood Terrace."
Arthur froze.
"Did you really think I didn't know about the second mortgage you took out on your house three years ago to fund Nick’s failed import business?" I asked. "The second mortgage that you cross-collateralized against the commercial warehouse depot? The depot that I now own entirely?"
Arthur’s mouth dropped open.
"If you don't sign that quitclaim deed right now," I said, "I will call the note due on the warehouse commercial lien at noon. When you default, the bank will accelerate the mortgage on Elmwood Terrace. The house will be on the sheriff’s auction block by February. You and Evelyn will be out on the street with Nick."
The room was completely silent.
Marcus Vance stared out the window, refusing to make eye contact with his cousins. Harold Vance stared at his blotter.
May you like
Arthur looked at the gold pen Diane had placed on top of the blue folder. His hand was shaking so violently that he could barely grip the barrel.
He didn't look at Nick. He didn't look at me. With a shuddering gasp that sounded like a dying breath, Arthur Vance scribbled his name across the signature line.
