Chapter 2 - The Cracking Foundation
The suburban office of Evelyn Vance Notary Services was tucked behind a rundown dry cleaner. I moved deliberately, each step supported by my carbon-fiber cane, my spine stabilized by medical velcro and sheer spite. Tamara walked two paces behind me, holding a manila folder thick with hospital letterhead.
Evelyn Vance was a nervous woman in her late fifties, wearing oversized reading glasses on a beaded chain. When she saw me hobble in, she offered a practiced, customer-service smile. “Good morning! Are you here for an auto title or an affidavit?”
“Neither, Evelyn,” I said, resting my weight on the cane across her desk. “I’m here about the quitclaim deed and warranty deed for Unit 304 at the Highland Ridge Condominiums. Recorded four days ago.”
The color drained from her cheeks with the speed of an uncapped syringe. Her hands fluttered over her desk blotter. “I… I handle hundreds of deeds, ma'am. You’d have to speak with the title agency—”
“You signed your logbook at 1:47 PM on Tuesday the twelfth,” I interrupted smoothly, pulling the certified anesthesia chart from Tamara’s folder and slapping it flat on her desk. “You swore under penalty of perjury that Marin Sutton appeared personally before you, produced a valid military driver’s license, and executed a transfer of deed to Roy Maddox.”
She stared down at the chart. Her eyes tracked the medical jargon: Endotracheal Intubation: 11:02 AM. General Anesthesia Ongoing. Bispectral Index: 38.
“I am Marin Sutton,” I said softly. “And at 1:47 PM, I was completely unconscious with my spine clamped open in Operating Room 4 at St. Jude’s. So tell me, Evelyn: did you stamp a forged paper for Gerald Sutton, or did someone else impersonate me?”
Evelyn began to shake visibly. Her fingers tore at the corner of a sticky note. “Gerald said… he told me it was an emergency family matter! He said his daughter had signed the paperwork at home before getting sick and that he forgot to have it notarized before she went to the clinic! He brought in a photocopy of your military ID!”
“Which is a class-three felony in this state,” Tamara chimed in from the doorway, holding up her phone which was openly recording the conversation.
“I have grandchildren!” Evelyn burst out, tears welling in her eyes. “Roy Maddox’s closing agency gives me seventy percent of my monthly business! If I refused Gerald, Roy said he’d drop my contract! Gerald swore on his life that Marin approved it for her sister’s wedding! He said everybody was on board!”
“Gerald lied to you to save his own skin,” I said, leaning in. “You certified a fraudulent conveyance on a four-hundred-thousand-dollar asset. The state board will revoke your license by noon, and the prosecutor’s office will name you as a co-conspirator in grand larceny.”
Evelyn dropped her head onto her arms, sobbing. “What do you want? Please, what do you want from me?”
“The truth. On an official sworn affidavit prepared by my attorney,” I said. “You will state that Gerald Sutton brought you forged papers without my presence, that Roy Maddox pressured you to sign off, and that you never laid eyes on me. You sign that today, or you answer the police detectives when they kick your door down tomorrow.”
“I’ll sign it,” she wept instantly. “I’ll write whatever happened. Just don’t send me to jail.”
Leaving her office, the cold morning air felt crisp and clean in my lungs. We had cut the legs out from under the notary defense. The deed was a smoking ruin of fraud.
My phone buzzed in my coat pocket. It was a text message from Brooke:
*Marin, the florist and the string quartet just called crying because their deposits bounced! Dad said you did something to the bank accounts! Why are you ruining my life right before the biggest day of my future?! Call Dad right now and fix this!*
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I stared at the screen, feeling the final, stubborn ember of sisterly obligation turn to gray ash. She hadn't asked if I was walking. She hadn't asked if the surgical incision was infected. She only cared that her violinists hadn't been tipped.
I texted back two words: Hire an IPod.
