Chapter 2 - The Sunday Dinner Confrontation
By 2:00 PM on Sunday, the afternoon heat hung heavy over Warren’s sprawling brick estate in Oakridge.
Every Sunday, the family gathered at Warren’s long dining table. It was a ritual built on compliance. Celeste sat near the end, her eyes tired, nursing a glass of iced tea while her husband avoided eye contact. Daniel sat beside me, his knuckles white against his linen napkin.
Warren sat at the head of the table, carving a sirloin roast with slow, deliberate precision.
"Daniel tells me you looked over the papers from yesterday, Rosalie," Warren said without raising his eyes from the meat. "It's for the best. Baker Landworks is expanding our regional holdings. That twelve acres has been sitting idle since your mother passed. You don't have the capital to maintain it, and the taxes will eat you alive."
"The taxes are twelve hundred dollars a year, Warren," I said calmly, taking a sip of water. "My mother paid them on time for twenty-six years, and I’ve paid them on time for three."
Warren set the carving knife down with a soft clack against the silver platter. He looked at me with the polite, condescending patience an adult uses with a stubborn child.
"It’s business, Rosalie. You’re raising two children. Daniel’s salary at the firm is good, but in this economy, every family needs a safety net. $150,000 in liquid cash is a blessing. We’ll take care of the deed transfer at our corporate counsel’s office on Tuesday."
"No," I said cleanly.
The dining room went completely still. Celeste paused mid-reach for the salad bowl.
Warren frowned slightly. "Excuse me?"
"The answer is no," I repeated, reaching into my handbag and pulling out a blue-bound legal folder. "And there won't be a transfer on Tuesday. In fact, you have forty-eight hours to voluntarily withdraw your complaint with prejudice before I file this with the clerk of the court."
Warren let out a short, hearty laugh, looking over at Daniel. "Daniel, I think your wife misunderstands how civil procedure works. Once a suit is served, it’s in the hands of the attorneys."
"I am an attorney, Warren," I spake quietly.
Warren’s smirk didn't disappear, but his eyes narrowed. "You were an Army clerk, dear. Writing wills for privates isn't real litigation."
I opened the blue folder and laid three pages flat on his tablecloth, right beside his plate.
"Page one," I stated, my voice echoing cleanly through the quiet room. "The Special Power of Attorney I granted Daniel prior to my deployment to Kuwait. Page two, paragraph four, bolded text: This power does not include the sale, transfer, option, or encumbrance of real property. Daniel had no legal capacity to execute an option on my land."
Warren’s smile flickered. He glanced down at the paper.
"Page two," I continued smoothly. "Daniel’s travel records proving he was in San Antonio on March 14, making Kevin Vance’s notarization an act of criminal forgery under State Statute 41-1-12."
Celeste gasped softly into her napkin.
Warren’s face flushed a deep, mottled red. He pushed the plate away, leaning across the table. "You think you can come into my house and threaten me with technicalities? Daniel signed that paper as an officer of Baker Landworks. He works for me. His house is owned by my company."
I looked at my husband. Daniel was staring down at his plate, his face pale, his breath shallow.
"Daniel works for Baker Landworks," I agreed. "And you have been underpaying him for five years while using the Lynen Street house as leverage to keep him silent. But Daniel doesn't own the Hollis place. I do."
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I stood up, adjusting the strap of my handbag.
"Withdraw the suit by 5:00 PM on Tuesday, Warren. If you don't, my counterclaims will be filed on Wednesday morning. And unlike your complaint, mine won't just be about twelve acres of dirt."
