Chapter 5 - Monday Morning Ambush
Monday arrived under a ceiling of slate-gray clouds. By seven-thirty in the morning, two large commercial flatbed trucks arrived outside our workshop on Elm Street. Through the high-definition security cameras linked to my tablet, Martha and I watched the entire scene unfold from the quiet comfort of Arthur Vance’s legal office three miles away.
Richard’s sleek black SUV pulled up behind the flatbeds. He stepped out wearing his best leather jacket and aviator sunglasses, swaggering with the casual confidence of an emperor arriving to survey his conquests. Jason stepped out of the passenger side, looking sickly pale and exhausted, chewing his fingernails nervously.
Behind them were four burly laborers armed with crowbars, bolt cutters, and industrial dollies.
""Look at him,"" Martha murmured, shaking her head as she leaned over my shoulder. ""He really thinks he can just bulldoze your entire life.""
Arthur Vance, a veteran attorney with forty years of courtroom steel behind his calm demeanor, adjusted his glasses. ""The local precinct has already received the dispatch. Officers are stationed around the corner. Let him commit the trespass on camera, Margaret. The deeper the hole he digs, the easier the burial.""
On the screen, Richard walked up to the heavy steel entrance of the warehouse. He took out an old brass key—the key he had copied from my purse two years ago without my permission—and jammed it into the lock.
The key didn't turn.
Richard frowned, jiggling the brass handle aggressively. He pulled the key out, wiped it on his jeans, and shoved it back in, twisting with enough force that I thought the metal would snap. Nothing moved. The brand-new electronic biometric deadbolt blinked a steady, mocking red light.
Richard cursed loudly enough for the external microphones to pick up his rage. He kicked the steel door once, hard, then turned to the laborers.
""Break it down!"" he ordered, waving his hand toward the bolt cutters. ""The old woman changed the locks! Cut the hinges if you have to!""
""Dad, wait!"" Jason grabbed his father’s arm, his voice frantic on the audio feed. ""I told you! She knows! She owns the building, Dad! Let's just leave before—""
""Shut up!"" Richard shoved Jason backward against the brick wall. ""She doesn't own shit! Everything she has is half mine! I pay the mortgage on our house, and that makes this workshop community property! Cut the damn door!""
One of the laborers lifted an industrial sledgehammer and struck the reinforced steel door. The clang echoed down the narrow industrial alley like a gunshot.
Before he could swing a second time, three police cruisers turned into the alleyway with their blue and red lights flashing silently, blocking both ends of the street.
Richard froze, the sunglasses slipping slightly down his nose.
Four uniformed officers stepped out of the patrol cars, led by Sergeant Miller, a no-nonsense officer whom Martha and I had spoken with on Sunday morning.
""Step away from the door and put down the tools!"" Sergeant Miller commanded, his hand resting firmly on his holster.
""Officers, thank God you're here!"" Richard shouted immediately, putting on his charming, authoritative supervisor voice. ""I’m the property owner here! I have squatters who changed the locks on my commercial facility! These men are working for me!""
Sergeant Miller walked forward, unimpressed, pulling a thick document from his clipboard. ""Are you Richard Collins?""
""Yes, I am!"" Richard puffed his chest out. ""And my wife, Margaret Collins, has stolen property inside. I have every right to access my building.""
""Mr. Collins,"" Sergeant Miller said in a flat, deadpan voice. ""I have the deed for this property right here. The sole registered owner is Heritage Woods Restorations LLC, incorporated by Margaret Collins and Martha Davis. Your name appears nowhere on this title.""
Richard blinked, stunned. ""That’s... that’s impossible. We’re married! It’s marital property!""
""Commercial assets owned by an independent LLC prior to your dispute are not subject to summary self-help eviction,"" Arthur Vance’s voice crackled through the speakerphone connected to Sergeant Miller’s radio. Arthur had patched into the call. ""Mr. Collins, this is Arthur Vance, legal counsel for Mrs. Margaret Collins. You are currently trespassing on private commercial property, inciting property damage, and violating an emergency restraining order signed by Judge Holbrook at six o'clock this morning.""
Richard’s face transformed from arrogant confusion to wild, purple rage. He charged toward the security camera mounted above the door, shaking his fist violently at the lens.
""Margaret!"" he screamed, his voice cracking with hysteria. ""You vindictive bitch! You think you can do this to me? I will bleed you dry in court! I will take every dime you ever made! You’re an old, worthless hag, and nobody wants you!""
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Sergeant Miller didn't hesitate. ""Hands behind your back, Collins. Now.""
Within seconds, Richard’s arms were twisted behind him, and the cold steel of handcuffs snapped around his wrists in the bright morning light, all captured in crystal-clear four-thousand-pixel definition.
