Chapter 4 - The Lawyer and the Lockout
The morning sun hit the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of Claire Sanders’s corner office on the twenty-fourth floor, casting long, sharp shadows across a mahogany conference table piled high with financial folders.
Claire sat across from me, a porcelain mug of black coffee in one hand and a red pen in the other. She wore a sharp charcoal blazer, her silver-streaked hair pulled back into a severe chignon. She didn't look tired; she looked like a general surveying a battlefield.
"The good news," Claire said, tapping the pen against a copy of my property title, "is that your grandfather was a remarkably paranoid man. God rest his soul."
"He never trusted my father," I said softly.
"And by extension, he made sure no future son-in-law could get his claws into family assets," Claire smirked. "This deed contains an ironclad sole-ownership clause. Miguel never signed a quitclaim because he was never put on the title in the first place. Legally speaking, he is a guest. A long-term tenant at best. In this jurisdiction, an unpermitted co-occupant—especially one who has actively committed civil conversion of marital funds—has zero claim to real property."
"And Carmen?"
"Carmen is a squatter," Claire stated coldly. "She has no lease. She has paid no rent to the legal owner of the home, which is you. The fact that she is pregnant does not grant her property rights to a house she doesn't own, no matter how much emotional theater Rosa tries to stage."
Claire flipped to the banking records, her eyes narrowing as she reviewed the wire transfers to Reyes Holdings LLC.
"This, however, is where we make them bleed," she continued, her voice taking on a predatory edge. "He moved eighty-five thousand dollars out of a joint marital account into a private corporate vehicle co-owned by his mistress without your written consent. That is fraudulent transfer. It’s civil theft. In a divorce proceeding, the judge will not only credit that entire sum back to your side of the ledger, but we will also file for punitive damages."
"I don't just want the money back, Claire," I said, leaning forward. "I want them out of my house. Today."
"Already handled," Claire smiled, sliding a stack of stamped legal documents toward me. "These are emergency lockout orders and a formal notice of trespass. I called the county sheriff's department twenty minutes ago. A deputy will meet us at the property at ten o'clock. Along with a commercial locksmith."
By nine-forty-five, I was parked two houses down from my residence. Claire sat in the passenger seat beside me, calmly scrolling through her iPad.
At precisely ten o'clock, a white sheriff’s cruiser pulled up to the curb, followed by a bright yellow van with *APEX LOCKSMITHING* painted across the side.
Deputy Miller, a tall, burly man with a mustache and a no-nonsense demeanor, stepped out of his car and touched the brim of his hat as I approached. "Mrs. Reyes? I have the court order. Are the occupants currently inside?"
"Yes," I replied, looking toward the driveway where Miguel’s sedan and Carmen’s silver hatchback were parked. The baby shower banner had been taken down, but ribbons still drifted lazily in the front bushes.
We walked up the front steps together. Claire stood at my left, the locksmith stood behind us with his heavy tool bag, and Deputy Miller took the lead.
The deputy banged his heavy fist against the solid oak door. Three sharp, concussive thuds.
"Sheriff's Department! Open the door!"
A moment later, the deadbolt clicked. Miguel opened the door wearing sweatpants and an old college T-shirt, holding a mug of coffee. His eyes were red-rimmed, his hair uncombed.
"Ana?" he breathed, his expression flickering between hope and panic. "You came back—"
"Step aside, sir," Deputy Miller said, placing a heavy hand on the door frame. "I am serving an emergency notice of vacatur and trespass. You and all unauthorized occupants have thirty minutes to collect essential personal belongings and vacate the premises."
Miguel dropped his coffee mug. It shattered on the porch, mirroring the previous night’s mess. "What? What are you talking about? This is my house!"
"This property is legally registered solely to Ana Katherine Vance," Claire interjected smoothly, holding up the stamped court order. "You are an unauthorized occupant committing civil trespass. If you are not off these premises in twenty-eight minutes, Deputy Miller will place you in handcuffs."
"Miguel? Who's at the door?"
Carmen appeared in the hallway, wearing one of *my* cashmere robes—the cream-colored one Miguel had bought me for Christmas two years ago. The sight of her swollen belly wrapped in my clothing sent a spike of pure rage through my veins.
"Take that off," I said, stepping past Deputy Miller.
Carmen gasped, backing away into the living room. "Ana, you can't do this! I have an ultrasound appointment in an hour! I'm carrying Miguel's child!"
"And you can carry him in a hotel room," I said, my voice deadly quiet. "Take off my robe. Now. Or the deputy will assist you."
Deputy Miller cleared his throat. "Ma'am, you need to begin packing personal clothing immediately. Only what can fit in two bags per person. Everything else will be subject to civil retrieval at a scheduled later date."
"Miguel, do something!" Carmen shrieked, bursting into hysterical tears. "Call your mother! Call her right now!"
"My mother has already been notified," I said, crossing my arms. "And if she steps foot on my property, she will be arrested for harassment. Locksmith, change the front, back, and garage deadbolts now."
The locksmith nodded and immediately began drilling into the lock cylinder. The high-pitched whine of the drill echoed through the foyer like a war horn.
Miguel grabbed my arm, his voice breaking into a desperate whimper. "Ana, please! Don't do this to us! Carmen has nowhere to go! We don't have enough cash for a deposit on an apartment! The brewery account is frozen!"
I looked down at the hand he had placed on my wrist, then slowly lifted my gaze to meet his eyes.
May you like
"That's funny," I whispered. "I had the bank freeze Reyes Holdings LLC at eight o'clock this morning. It seems you and your business partner are officially broke. Better call your mother, Miguel. Maybe she has a fold-out couch for her new golden boy."
***
